Hope's Light
by Gwen6
Summary: Faerun is darkened by strife. A fugitive had fled asassins for months, and now, weary, cannot go on. Until that is, a stranger arrives, which changes everything. Explores the life of Gorion, and has Imoen as one of the main characters.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

The dark-robed figure sat, hunched, in the shadowed corner of the inn. It was obvious that the shape was female, but any other features were hidden, either by the covering robe, or the deep cowl that shrouded her face in blackness. She sat, barely moving, her pale thin hands holding tightly to a metal flask. The serving wenches stayed clear of her. Nothing had she bought, in the week that she had stayed here. None had ever seen her eat, and none had seen her drink anything except whatever liquid was contained within her flask. She paid for her room daily, never speaking, just handing a gold coin soundlessly to the innkeeper.

Outside the Friendly Arm, on this night deep in the middle of winter, it was snowing heavily. Blasts of icy northern wind could be heard shrieking, but whilst most in the tavern common room were able to ignore it, continuing with their dancing, or conversations, this woman sat, occasionally shivering as if the shrieking of the wind brought back terrifying memories.

The door to the inn opened, and, as the wind slammed through the tavern, the woman lifted her gaze to look at the newcomer. It was a tall man, who wore robes as black as hers. If she was thin, then he was thinner, and he walked with a frailty that marked him as someone who was on his last legs. A patron moved to help him, but the figure snapped something, and the patron stepped back, face angered at the refusal of his help. But the customer did not say anything in response to the rudeness of the stranger, for there was a palpable chill about him, a sense of great power.

For a long time, the inn was quiet… silent, almost. One final blast of wind whipped around the room, and the cowl of the woman was thrown back from her face, revealing a surprisingly youthful face. Her hair was a faded red, with tiny traces of pink within it, and her eyes were a deep brown that, where they had once sparkled with joy, now seemed lifeless and dead. The frail figure stopped and gazed at her for a long time, and the woman finally raised her cowl again.

It was too late, however, for the stranger started walking towards her.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked quietly, his voice rasping. She opened her mouth to say that it was, but he was already sat there, his shadowed face turned in consideration of her. A long, bristling beard marked him as old, and it dripped, sodden from the fierce weather outside.

The woman spoke finally, softly, her voice youthful and gentle, "It is now." She left it at that, and she took a long sip of her flask, gazing at the man in front of her. Within her, she was starting to realise what this man was here for. Once, she would have had the energy to threaten him, but now she almost welcomed his presence. "When will you kill me then?"

She almost hated herself for the meek, defeated sound of her voice, but she could not stand it any longer. For three months, she had run, using her magic to fight each new assassin that cornered her. And now she wanted it to end. Let it be swift, was her only request…

There was a long silence, in which she was able to notice that the noise in the tavern had picked up. A bard on the stage was starting to sing a merry, slightly bawdy tune about a wench and Lathander. A frown of loss passed across her face. She remembered listening to that song before… so long ago…

The man in front of her asked, "Give me time, child… I want to know something first."

She looked up. This one was different. "What… what is it you want to know?"

He spoke quietly, but nevertheless his voice cut through any of her nostalgia. "How it happened… how many of the finest assassins have you killed, and why it is that you have so completely lost the spirit that made you so dangerous?"

For a long moment, she studied this black-robed man. There was something tantalisingly familiar about his tone… her mind worked through her acquaintances, but, she added bitterly, most were now dead. So who could he be? Perhaps just a stranger who she had exchanged words with at one time.

"I have killed seventeen. First, was a massive orc warrior… he wanted to be the one to kill the final Bhaalspawn, and no doubt the reward from the Four was an incentive as well. Him, I defeated easily."

She paused, and sighed. Down to the visible chin, tears trickled, glistening in the firelight that was so distant from the table. "The second was one I knew well, the bard Haer'Dalis…" A bitter laugh. "He offered to take me to Sigil, where he would forever guard his little raven. But I refused. Back then, duty still burned within me. So… my old comrade decided to collect the bounty."

Gazing past the man now, she spoke gently, her voice sorrowful, and fearful. As she recounted the long series of attackers, she felt a strange relief. _It will be over_, she told herself. _Over_. "Then, there were seven consecutive difficult, but otherwise forgettable assassins, employed by the Four to locate and destroy me." She paused. "The tenth was a vampire who craved a taste of divine blood."

Whispering, her voice echoing with a tiny sense of shame now, she said, "That was when I started to run." Her hands on the flask started to shake. "Anomen… he… he and Jaheira tried to reason with me. They told me that Faerun needed me." Tears ran freely now, and her throat seemed to clog up. "Dear Jaheira… she… she hugged me, and told me that it was going to be well again. She said… she said we could still beat the Four…"

The man spoke now, his rasping voice neutral, "But you had had enough. You thought if you fled far enough, you would not be found. Where did you go to, first?"

She sighed. "I teleported away, even as Jaheira had me in her arms, to distant Calimshan, where I was safe… for two weeks. The eleventh assassin came in the form of another wizard. It was perhaps the toughest spell battle I have ever fought in, but I beat him back, and killed him."

The man interrupted, "Why were you running? What happened, child? What happened to Reina?"

Looking at him again, she shuddered, "Yaga-Shura happened. Oh, how we all fought. Anomen, Jaheira, Minsc, myself and Nalia, alongside Reina… we fought through the giants to their stronghold, and there we destroyed the heart that was giving the fire giant his invincibility. But as it turned out…" She closed her eyes. "He did not need it. In the battle, we were sorely outnumbered. Minsc went first, in his berserk rage, trying to protect our rear. Then, Nalia was killed… a spear thrust through her heart in mid-spell. But… we could have fought on… Anomen was carving through the common soldiers towards Yaga-Shura, where Reina and Jaheira fought side by side."

She stopped, and found she could not speak. The memories brought with them the renewed pain of that dark day.

With a strange softness, the man whispered, "Go on."

"Reina tripped… I don't know how… I had never seen her stumble, ever. But she did. And it was all the distraction the giant needed. He slammed his club against Jaheira, who fell back. Free to attack Reina, he stamped down on her back, and broke her spine."

Glancing at the table, she saw the droplet-marks of several tears, and moved her hand to wipe her shadowed eyes. "But that is in the past. She is gone from us, now."

The strange sighed, "Yes, she is. Now… speak. The twelfth assassin?"

She shrugged, "I cannot really remember, the rest. My… my mind is not what it used to be." A chuckle, as bitter as almost every utterance she made, escaped her lips. "I remember the sixteenth, though. He was a yuan-ti wizard, along with his war party. I was nearly killed. I killed them all, but lay dying. Had a ranger not aided me then, perhaps I would have bled to death."

"It would have been easier for you, anyway. You seem to value the easier path. Reina died to help you and her live free, but _you_… you have lost your courage, and that is why you will not fight when I try to kill you." The man laughed, scornfully. "When you heard her spine snap, did all your strength snap with it?"

Her eyes flared, and she moved forward so swiftly that her cowl slipped down. "Speak not of what you do not know! You have not had your life hounded by those hunting you! What do _you_ know of Reina? I would have given my life for her! I would again!"

The man was laughing, "You are a liar. You say you would give your life for her? But you seem to think that she is dead, and therefore safe. Do you _know_ what happens to the Bhaalspawn when they die? They are dragged to the Nine Hells, and are doomed to wait there till this chaos is ended… when they are either free to go to their deities, or, if the one who controls them is…" He laughed again. "…unethical… then they will spend their lives in torment."

She paled, but the man continued. "So do not tell me you would give your life for her, when you are about to throw it away to a man who would ensure that she burns forevermore. You stupid, foolish, weak child."

But she had stood, now. Her hands were clenched at her side, and her eyes blazed with hatred. "Then try to kill me then, and see if I will rest easy why you do so! I am not weak!"

Silence had fallen over the tavern, now. The man asked, his voice faintly subdued, now, "Tell me, child… do you stand to fight because you want to prove that you are not stupid, foolish and weak… or to protect Reina?"

She snarled, "What does it matter?"

The stranger sighed, "It is, at the moment, the most important matter in the world."

Considering, she said, "If you must… It is to protect Reina."

With a nod, the figure sighed, "Then all is not lost." A wrinkled hand reached to his cowl, and lowered it. His eyes, a deep blue, watched the girl in front of him, who paled, her eyes wide and terrified. He saw her knees go weak, and saw her sit down, as if everything in her world had suddenly shattered. And then he moved to wrap her in a warm embrace, tears that echoed her own pouring down his cheeks. "My little Imoen… I will protect you now… and we will save Reina… I swear it!"

But the girl known as Imoen pushed him from her, and magic sparked at her fingertips. "Demon! It is not enough to try to kill me… but you must twist my mind as you do it? Cowards! Come to me… come to me as _him_?" Tears streamed down her face. "Gorion is _dead!_" she shrieked.

But the old man in front of her sighed, "I am dead no longer. Forgive me, Imoen… but my ruse was necessary. I had to awaken your courage again… I had to see if my little Imoen had been crushed completely. But I see that it is not true. You, Imoen," he spoke, his voice cracking with emotion. "You are stronger than you should ever have had to be."

The magic fizzled, and she croaked, "You are truly him?"

Gorion nodded. "I am, dear one… come back, to aid you in your time of peril."

And outside, a flare of lightning punctuated the very moment when Imoen cleared the distance between them, to hug him to herself, holding to him so tightly, lest he disappear from her again.

As he held her close, Gorion breathed in deeply, and he remembered his former life, so shrouded in mystery and mist, that at times, he wondered if any of it was true, and not just delusions of a broken man.

The tavern returned to life, as the two held to each other as if for life.


	2. Chapter One: Thorlaster

**CHAPTER ONE**

Gorion as a child was not that far removed from the man he would be in the future.

He was filled with a sense of adventure that few could match. When the gypsy caravan moved on, it was always Gorion who would have to be found by the scouts. If there was a spare seat on the front of the wagon, he would be the first amongst the children to ask to sit beside the driver. And, whenever the caravan stopped at night to tell tales beside the crackling fire, he was ever the one to declare that if _he_ was Elminster, he would have done it differently, or if _he_ was a gypsy ancestor, he would have killed thousands of orcs and not just hundreds.

The gypsy caravan was a close-knit family, and all loved Gorion Mallavar, only son of the beautiful dancer Angelique. From a very young age, he showed a grace in his movements that he had no doubt inherited from his mother, and his features, although still in the softness of youth, would grow to become handsome. Even the fact that he was not truly of gypsy stock but the child of an adopted gypsy, did not concern his fellows. They saw him as a brother, and were proud of his young expressions of freedom that all gypsy folk prized above all else.

"He'll be a fine man, Angel," the leader would often say at the campfire, when the children were abed underneath the wagons. And his mother would smile gently, and nod her gracious agreement. None, however, could say much more than had already been said by the diviner who travelled with the band. Maggie Mowlam, an aged witch even then, had read the baby Gorion's palm, and had uttered her spells over him. A tradition, of sorts, that always told the band something about the child that was to be accepted by them.

Mowlam, after casting the spell over Gorion, had gasped. "This child," she declared, holding the baby to the stars. "This boy shall bring great things to our world. In his future, I see great darkness, but an equally great light that will burn within his heart! Praise to the Weavemother who has shown me this!"

But, whilst the gypsies danced around the fire, celebrating the new birth, she had cornered Gorion's mother. "You are not true gypsy," the old woman had said, her eyes bright. "We all know this. So who is the child's father? You came to us with child…"

Angelique smiled softly. "I do not know."

The witch sighed, "I think you do. But it is of no matter. I have seen more. Gorion will not be a gypsy, Angelique Mallavar. His fate is too strong for him to be content dancing around fires with tambourines and bells at his feet…"

His mother sighed, and whispered, "I know that already. The gypsy life is my life now, but it can never be his. But I want him to be safe, as he grows, I want him to know what it is to have love, and to be free… and then…"

Mowlam fixed the beautiful gypsy with her strange, violet eyes. "And then?"

She smiled again, that calm, dignified manner never fading, "What do you suggest?"

The old diviner laughed, "This is your child…"

Angelique kept to her smile, but gazed at the old woman with a ferocity that few could match. "And you are the one with the echoes of the future at your fingertips. What do you see of his path, old woman?"

A sigh escaped Maggie's lips, "I see the path of a wizard."

Gorion's mother nodded, "Then he shall become a wizard."

* * *

Gorion Mallavar could remember little of his life as a gypsy. He remembered the joy of the tambourine dances, beneath the starlit sky, and never could he forget the spicy aroma of their distinctive cooking, and even when he grew aged, the smell of strong spices could bring remembrance shivering through his mind. But the face of his mother, he found it difficult to remember. Oh, she loved him, and he her, but she was gone for the rest of his life, when he was aged but seven.

For Angelique Mallavar was true to her word, and as soon as she felt Gorion had learned enough of the gypsy way, she found a respectable mage, Thorlaster the Splendid. Splendid of skill and of girth, this massive-bellied man was a kindly master, and wealthy. After assuring her that her son would be looked after, he was given the seven year old Gorion, who cried once.

And this, Gorion always remembered. He cried, but his mother (who in his recall had a blurred, hazy face) held him close to her, the scent of cinnamon clinging to her clothing. Whispering, she had kissed him once, "Be free, my child… be free."

* * *

So, aged seven, Thorlaster had taken Gorion.

His abode was on a secluded beach along the Sword Coast.

Hidden from the road, with his home actually dug into a rocky cliff, Thorlaster had very few visitors. A retired adventurer, his home was wealthy indeed. Book after untold book studded the basalt walls, and the caves extended far indeed, into the rock. The seven year old Gorion loved exploring the shadowy rooms, but learned swiftly not to enter rooms with closed doors, after sneaking into one of his master's many laboratories, only to be attacked by a tiny lightning bolt.

But the numbers of rooms in the cave were finite, and soon, aged eight, Gorion's sense of exploration led him outside. And here, he found true freedom. He could walk along the jagged beaches of the Sword Coast for miles. Whenever his mentor asked him to read a book and tell him what he thought, Gorion would sit on a beach somewhere, his bare feet dipping into the sea as the tide washed around him. He was always careful to keep the books dry, though.

And so, the years passed.

At first, Thorlaster taught Gorion nothing of magic.

"You must allow your mind to grow, my boy. Immense potential is within you, but we must expand your intelligence before we plant the magical seeds, else you will become so reliant on magic, and not your wit."

Thorlaster wanted Gorion to learn and Gorion did so studiously, and not just from books. Thorlaster had many friends, and although he had few visitors, every so often an acquaintance from the wizard's past would arrive, seeking shelter for the night. Gorion's favourite of these visitors, by far, was the youthful half-elven ranger, Dahl Winterfoot. He was, apparently, the son of Thorlaster's sister, and although he was perhaps twenty years older than Gorion, the two got along well. Gorion's memories of the gypsy band were beginning to cool, but he did remember the kinship he had with every member of the band, and craved that feeling again.

And so, when Dahl taught him of nature, Gorion listened attentively. His master joked several times, that perhaps Gorion would better serve Faerun as a ranger, but Gorion did not think so. Although he had never cast any spells whatsoever, he knew from studying history, politics, law… from studying everything that Thorlaster placed in front of him, he knew that magic, and the Weave that powered it, was perhaps one of the most fundamental forces that drove those that lived on this earth.

"What do you love the most, Dahl?" Gorion asked the older ranger on one of the days the half elf visited. His eyes gazed inquisitively at him, demanding an answer with all the energy of youth.

Dahl laughed, in that quiet, musical way of his. "What do I love? Well…" he trailed off, gazing at the vast expanse of ocean that extended ahead of their place on the beach. "Everything and nothing." Seeing the frustration sparking on Gorion's face, he laughed again, and clapped the boy on the shoulders. "You are so serious, Gorion, so serious. Well then, let me explain. Look out yonder, and see the ocean singing its song to us. When you sleep, and the storm breaks upon the coast, listen to the wind crying to us. If you stride through a wood, listen to the twitter of birds… this is what I love, the way in which we are constantly surrounded by beauty."

He sighed, "And nothing… because I am tied to nothing. I have no family – any longer, and my friends are few and far between."

Gorion gaped, "But you have me and Master!"

Dahl nodded, his eyes landing speculatively on Gorion, "Aye, I suppose I do at that. But do not worry yourself on my obscure answers. Love is difficult, Gorion, let me tell you that. Sometimes, we think we love something, when we do not. Other times, we hate something so much, beyond all reason that it turns into an obsession, a form of love. Which is why, one can never truly answer the question… what do I love the most?"

The young boy nodded, and Gorion never forgot those words.

* * *

"Today, we will start the rudiments of your magical training," Thorlaster said one evening, as the two of them sat on the beach. Gorion was eating bread and cheese, with a simple mug of ale. His Master on the other hand, was eating an exotic meal of quail eggs, and a plate of various different cheeses. To his right, a dip of exotic sauce lay, and biscuit-fingers rested beside it.

Gorion grinned, "Yes! You think I'm ready?"

His Master nodded. "Of course, Gorion. Perhaps I have even left it a little too late, and have turned you into too much of a scholar, and little of a mage. But that will remain to be seen, no? At the very least, you have a future ahead of you. And whatever you choose your star will burn bright indeed."

The boy smiled, not truly knowing what to make of his master's declaration, but his boy's heart overcome with excitement at the idea that he, Gorion, would finally be able to cast a spell! "What will we learn first?" he asked excitedly.

And Thorlaster considered Gorion carefully. "The first spell any mage ever learns. You will learn how to read magic, my boy. Only then, can your blossoming truly begin. Now, pay attention," he said, popping a quail's egg into his mouth and swallowing it. "It is important, with this spell to remember…"

Gorion was proud of himself.

The target stood, charred, in front of him. He had finally mastered the spell Thorlaster had given him! Oh, how he had moved on from four months ago! The spell enabling him to read magic had come easily; as had all the other minor cantrips his master had shown him. And this spell, that Thorlaster named the spell of magic missile, had been more difficult, requiring the utmost concentration, but Gorion had managed it! His mentor was impressed. He had said as much.

"Ah, Gorion let me see how…" Thorlaster, entering the practice chamber to speak with Gorion, stopped, seeing the burned target. He raised a brow in speculation. "Well done, my boy. It seems to have been an impressive casting."

Gorion smiled. He liked to think that Thorlaster was proud of him.

"Well, we will begin talking about what you have learned of magic from the spells I have taught you, tomorrow morning."

The boy gaped. Tomorrow morning? "But that's not fair! I mastered this specially so I could learn another!"

Thorlaster quirked a brow, an obvious warning signal. "_Mastered_ it, boy?" His tone was low. He smirked once, and pointed absently to the target. Nothing was even spoken, but five magic missiles sped from his finger. The target took one hit, then another, but by the third, fourth and fifth it was lying as little more than ash. Fixing Gorion with a cool gaze, Thorlaster said, _"That_ is _mastering_ the magic missile spell. And do you know how I mastered it, Gorion?"

Gorion shook his head mutely.

"I mastered it through patience!By listening to my master, by learning everything I could of the Art, not just for castings sake, but out of respect for its power. Oh, I could teach you spell after spell, boy and what would you become but someone with power at your fingertips? There is much _more_ to magic than that… so much more."

It took Gorion, aged twelve at that point, a long while to understand what it was that Thorlaster meant. The offended boy, at twelve, took it into his head then, that eventually he would escape from Thorlaster and learn magic in his own way. "Be free…" his mother had said, but Gorion did not see beyond those words into their true meaning, but instead saw them as an excuse to leave Thorlaster.

Two years were set to pass before he would work up the courage to run away.


	3. Chapter Two: Escape

**CHAPTER TWO**

"Why're ye 'ere, eh? Ye bin lookin fer adventure, aye? Well, me mukka, ye be a-findin' it, like. Boys! Get yer arses over yer!" The huge man grinned at Gorion. He wore dirty chainmail, and across his back a scary-looking two-handed sword was strapped. His beard was scraggly and streaked with sweat, ale and blood. One of his eyes was horribly bloodshot. But Gorion did not want to look afraid, so he nodded. Speaking gently, he said, "Y-yes, sir… I was told by the good master innkeeper, that I would find people who could take me places, in this…"

He trailed off. A strange place for adventurers to wait, in the entrance to the sewers of Baldur's Gate, but he could hardly complain. These were the people who would aid him in escaping from Thorlaster. At that thought, Gorion suppressed a shudder. The man had been good to him, and how had Gorion repaid him? By stealing his spellbook, and fleeing to the nearby metropolis to forge his own life.

But the fourteen year-old drove the guilt away. _He called me a fool! He said that I will never make a true wizard!_ He remembered too well the conversation two weeks ago. Gorion had, as ever, wanted to go on to study other spells after he had studied the spell that allowed a mage to identify magical effects. But his Master had told him to have patience. And Gorion, gripped by the tumultuous nature of early adolescence, had yelled at him.

The friends of the man arrived from around the corner. One was a black-robed man – a wizard, it was clear, who was gazing at Gorion (and his spellbook) greedily. Gorion gulped once. The wizard looked dangerous, with his bald head, and tattoos covering every inch of visible skin. With a soft, melodious voice that sent shivers down Gorion's spine, the wizard turned to the tall man, "Thobatt… let us both take this boy on his next great adventure… can you see the knowledge he has to share?"

Gorion openly shuddered then. There was something about this wizard that made his heart pulse with fear. He, subconsciously, took a step back. "S-sir… I think I… I mean, I might be having second thoughts."

Two other men, one wearing soft leather, the other wearing the same rusted chainmail as Thobatt, grinned at each other. The wizard took a step forward. "Oh, my dear, dear boy… you cannot have second thoughts about adventure… adventure waits for no man or child, my little one. Come with us," he whispered, his finger crooking as it motioned for Gorion to follow. "Come with us, and we will show you so many delights."

Thobatt snorted, "Stow it, mage. Ye be not 'avin this one. Iffen ye be wantin' it, then ye can be a-buyin' 'im." He turned to face Gorion, "Now, drop yer spellbook, ye bugger, an' come wit' us. Iffen ye be lucky, I'll ask Xazzak here not ter… _damage_ ye afore ye get sold. Iffen ye be a-resistin' though…"

He drew his sword with a menacing scrape.

Gorion gaped. _Slavers?_ He took several steps back now, and, desperately, tried to work out how to escape. "Y-you shouldn't try to harm me! I have vast powers at my disposal!" His voice tried to be threatening, and with a swiftly uttered incantation, he set a spark of harmless light to burst beneath Thobatt's legs. The three warriors cursed, and stepped back, looking to Xazzak. But Xazzak laughed, his voice shrill, "Oh, little one, do not make me laugh."

And he started chanting.

Quickly, the boy chanted his own spell, flying through the incantation with only a single stumble. From his outstretched palm, a pink globe of light, his magic missile, struck towards Xazzak, who was so busy casting his own spell that he was not able to dodge. Gorion's missile struck him in the left eye. There was a horrible sizzling of flesh. Gorion saw white liquid, bubbling, pour from his empty eye socket. Next minute, Xazzak shrieked, falling backwards, "_Gods!_ My _eye_! My _eye_!"

Gorion gasped, "Oh- I- I'm sorry! I didn't-"

He truly was sorry. All he had wanted was to scare them away with his tiny cantrip, and then distract Xazzak from his own spell… not _hurt_ them. But the others obviously did not see it like that, and they were growling now. Thobatt roared, "'arm me mage, _boy_, and ye 'arm _me_!"

His blade levelled towards Gorion, he charged. The boy's courage failed, and, terrified, he turned and ran for his life. "Help!" he screamed at the top of his voice. "Help me!"

One of the other warriors laughed, "Ye ain't a-gittin' no 'elp 'ere, matey… we're the bosses!"

Gorion shuddered. There had to be someone who could help him! But he knew the truth of it, then. Even if there was anyone in this sewer who _could_ help him, why would they possibly risk their life for a young _boy_? _I have to do it on my own_, Gorion thought. But he had perhaps one offensive spell left, and that was hardly enough to kill or seriously harm three huge warriors.

Turning, he started chanting, his finger-gestures clumsy and his voice stuttering a little more, but his concentration allowing him to enunciate correctly on the end of the casting. A tiny glob of acid leapt from his pointed finger. It sizzled towards Thobatt, where it struck him on the chin. A sizzling sound erupted through the sewer, as the acid started to eat at his lips. Gorion could see bone where the acid had eaten away at the skin! But then, as swiftly as it had appeared, the acid faded.

"_Bastard!"_ screamed the massive Thobatt, who, his mouth bleeding, was rushing faster towards Gorion now. The boy, still clasping Thorlaster's spellbook tightly with one of his hands, ran as fast as he could, but the older man's longer legs were outpacing him. The distance between them was lessening! Gorion, panting now, tried to run faster, but by then, it was too late.

Thobatt swung at him with the flat of his blade. Gorion fell to the floor, the spellbook falling into the filth of the sewer. He lay gasping for breath. Thobatt stood with one of his feet pressing down on the boy's back and spat on him. "Ye bugger… ye couldn't come quietly, could ye? An' now I be a-thinkin' I might let Xazzak 'ave ye… several times… afore I sell ye."

Gorion lay coughing, the filthy liquid of the sewer pouring into his mouth as he struggled, trying to lift himself up. But Thobatt pressed harder, and Gorion snorted, trying to breathe. His lungs were aching. His back was shrieking with the pain. His hands, weak, were trying to lift himself out of the water, but Thobatt's press was too heavy.

By now, Xazzak and the other two had caught up with the massive warrior. The wizard spoke, his voice distinctly less soft, "That one will wish he had never been born when I am finished with him. I shall rip his pretty little throat out!"

Thobatt grinned, "Do what ye like wit' 'im mage, but don' leave nuffink that won't heal afore he gits to… Calimport." The warrior laughed. There were few wounds that would not heal before reaching Calimport, save for the most serious. Gorion knew this, and even aged fourteen he could guess several of the things Xazzak had in mind. He struggled harder now, desperate to escape. But Thobatt slammed his foot down again. "Ye stay where ye are!"

Gorion coughed weakly. He heard Xazzak walking closer, but before anything else could happen, the boy heard a firm, commanding voice shout, "Get away from the boy!"

The voice was familiar… but Gorion could not believe who it was. _Thorlaster?_ He lifted his head from the water, somehow, and did not breathe in as he should have done, but, he managed to shout, "Run, Master! Run!"

Thobatt laughed, and slammed his foot down on Gorion's back again. "Yeah, ye heard a-right, ye fat fewl. Run. Or poddle away, iffen ye cannae be managing ter run with yer mighty fatness!"

Gorion, however, heard Xazzak whisper, "Gods… _Thorlaster!_ We've… we've attacked _his _apprentice!"

The boy had never heard another person react with such fear towards his master before. But then, when he heard Thorlaster speak, he could imagine why it was Xazzak's voice shivered with fear. It was dark, and tinged with anger. "I say once again: step away from the boy!"

Xazzak seemed to have found his voice, finally. "You are old, Thorlaster… and fat. You would die if you tried to save him. Just leave him to me… and if you want I can sell him back to you." A nasty chuckle escaped his lips.

"No." The answer was simple, but Gorion felt a palpable power within the statement.

And then Thobatt's foot was lifted from his back, and Gorion scrambled quickly. His legs were not working well, but he managed to ease himself to a sitting position, out of the filth of the sewers.

He saw Thobatt running towards Thorlaster now, followed by the other two warriors. Xazzak was chanting, a far more complex spell than any Gorion had heard before. He knew he had to help his Master! Running towards the hostile mage, he tackled him around the legs, and the mage's concentration fizzled. "_Get off, boy!"_ A booted foot glanced on Gorion's forehead, and he stumbled back. Xazzak gestured once, and uttered a swift incantation. Light flashed towards Gorion and in an instant he felt himself held by potent magic.

He turned his eyes to look at Thorlaster, who was chanting still as the three warriors were running towards him. Xazzak seemed to have recognised the spell being cast, because he shouted, "Get away from him!"

But it was too late.

Gorion saw, horrified, as a wall of ice, compressed tightly by the narrow passageway of the sewer tunnel, rushed toward the three warriors. They had time only for a single, unified shriek of pain. The ice faded before it reached Xazzak, but the cold mist that always steams off ice obscured the three figures about a metre away from Thorlaster. Gorion, had he been able to, would have shuddered. Standing in front of his Master, were three statues of solid ice, which were swiftly cracking.

Xazzak pointed at Thorlaster now and started chanting. But Gorion's Master merely touched a ring on his index finger. A blast of fire seared through the tunnel towards Xazzak, who cried out in pain, his spell broken. As he writhed, on the floor, beating at flames that had caught on his ragged robes, Thorlaster approached. He stood above the groaning mage. Gorion had never seen his Master like this, his eyes cold, a fierce expression on his face. It scared him.

"M-mercy, Thorlaster, please!"

Thorlaster stood silent for a long time. He knelt down beside Xazzak, and Gorion heard him say, "Mercy that you would have given to my boy?" His eyes were narrowed now. "Harm one of mine, spawn of hell, and you harm me."

Xazzak's eyes were bulging in fear now, and tears were pouring from his one remaining good eye. "_Please!"_

But Thorlaster merely shook his head. He reached his chubby fingers to his belt, and drew a lethally sharp dagger. Meeting Xazzak's gaze firmly, he said, "May you find some peace in death." Thorlaster's hand moved down swiftly, with a finality that chilled Gorion to the bone. The dagger stabbed deep into the mage's throat. He tugged the dagger across the skin once. There was a sound of snapping gristle and then a single desperate, bubbling gurgle from Xazzak as blood spurted. Then the mage lay still.

Thorlaster straightened then. Turning to face Gorion, he uttered a spell. Gorion stumbled to the floor, now that he could move again. He looked around the carnage that his actions had wrought. He met Thorlaster's eyes, and mouthed, for he could not speak. _I'm sorry_.

His Master smiled once, and then Gorion felt him hugging him. "My boy, you are quite forgiven… but you must promise me now… grow patience and see power for what it is. These people adored power. They loved to wield it over others. Especially that dead mage there… do not turn like them, Gorion."

And in a sudden flare of knowledge, Gorion finally understood what it was that Thorlaster had meant, two years ago. Power was not what was important. The joy of the Art was all, and the use to which it was put. Sobbing, now, Gorion held close to Thorlaster. Very nearly, he had thrown everything away.


	4. Chapter Three: Too Late

**CHAPTER THREE**

Imoen walked beside Gorion, along a deserted, windswept beach. The Sea of Swords was churning with a terrible ferocity. Wind, rain and salty sea spray ripped along the rocky expanse. It was the howling however, the wild shrieking of the weather that bothered Imoen more than anything. Yet it was safe, for now. Civilisation was miles away, and this beach was not visible from the road.

"Shall we make a camp here, Gorion?" she asked quietly, trying to hold her cloak about herself to prevent it from flapping around.

Her foster father merely smiled, and shook his head. There was sadness in his eyes, but also a great devotion. "No, dearest… you will see, when we come to it. There will be no need for a camp at all."

They continued in silence, Imoen's thoughts drifting as they always did, to that terrible place within her mind and soul, where the taint growled. _Kill the old man_, it was whispering to her. _Stab him now, before he has time to react… feel his life… feel his power, little child of mine… feel it and bask in it…_

It never changed.

Whilst Reina had been alive, Imoen had been aware of some taint. It manifested itself in an occasional melancholy that struck her at times or the odd irrational anger. Yet since her sister's death, it had changed beyond that. She feared to sleep, in case the voice in her soul rose up to claim her sleeping form. She feared to stare too long at blood, in case the urge to kill became too much for her.

Yet she said nothing, banishing the voice to the depths of her being, instead focusing on the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other. When she thought she had reached the limits of endurance, having walked for miles in the cold, Gorion stopped.

His eyes were cold and distant, as he stared at the cliff face. Imoen followed his gaze and saw a wooden oak door rotted by the salt water. The door banged with the force of the wind and whenever it opened, Imoen could see little but a gaping, shadowed cave. She expected Gorion to walk straight in, but instead, he knelt on the rocky beach. The motion was surprisingly fragile, so much so that she was struck by how old he seemed.

"I have returned, master."

When he finally stood, his eyes were still cold but there was an echo within them of grief. He looked at her with a sad smile, "This, Imoen, is where I studied magic as a young boy, under the watchful gaze of Thorlaster. A better master, one could never hope for." He sighed. "A shame he is not alive today… his counsel would be invaluable."

Imoen swallowed heavily. Gorion's voice was quiet, so quiet that she felt as if she was intruding upon his private grief. She offered her own slight smile and said, "Any man who could teach a wizard as fine as you, Gorion, would be welcome in any time."

He bowed his head at the compliment, though he seemed a little awkward, "Come, I will show you to where you may sleep tonight. I doubt any of the furnishings will be intact, but it is better than being out in this weather."

They walked, in renewed silence, into the cavern where once Gorion had lived.

* * *

That night, the wind continued to howl unabated.

Imoen woke once, briefly. Looking out upon the beach from where she slept, she saw her foster father standing, staring out at the Sea of Swords. His cloak billowed about him and he leaned on his gnarled staff. It may have been just the wind, but Imoen was sure she heard hoarse sobs, a sound she had never thought to hear from Gorion. Even in death, he had not cried. To see her father like this, hunched over a staff crying into an uncaring storm, rocked her to the core.

When he knelt down again, and wrapped his arms around himself, Imoen looked away. It was not her place to see Gorion like this. Nor would it ever be. Her last thoughts as she drifted off into slumber were of sympathy and sorrow.

* * *

"We're making good time," Gorion said as they walked along the Coast Way, towards the distant city of Baldur's Gate. "We should reach the city in seven hours. Less, if we encounter a Flaming Fist Patrol that can lend us a horse."

Imoen snorted, at that, "Mercenaries, _lend_ us a horse?"

Her foster-father grinned, "First sign of your cheek in days. Let's see more of it, hmm?"

She blushed, and couldn't help adding, "Whatever you want, old man."

Gorion sighed, "Imoen, to return to a serious note… are you sure you wish to do this?"

Imoen frowned. He had not mentioned what had to be done, not even that night in the Friendly Arm Inn. For several days there had been an uncomfortably tense silence, both of them unsure of what to say to each other after so many years and so much pain. To have him ask so bluntly took her by surprise.

Something of that surprise must have registered on her face, because her foster-father smiled, "I didn't visit that cave just for memory's sake, Imoen. It means something to me, something beyond just the home of my first teacher. It is the place where I first learned the meaning of my Art, first learned my true joy in life. It is a place I have visited… many times in my life, whenever I need guidance. And I received guidance last night."

She said, "I am sure. I can't keep running."

With surprising ferocity, Gorion said, "You can. If you wish it, I can show you a way to flee to the planes, to move beyond even the scope of the Four. There, you can prosper. Your magic will make you a power to reckon with. You can forge your own life. If that is what you want, I will help you achieve it."

Imoen was shocked for a moment. There was a great temptation in what he offered. Assassins could find her there, and would, but they would hardly be able to find her everywhere. There were an infinite number of places she could hide, an infinite number of places where she could just _live_. Whilst the Realms burned beneath the onslaught of the Four, who would in time grow to be unstoppable.

It was that last thought, which brought her sense of duty to the fore, and she shook her head, "No. I can't do that. I have to stop this. Otherwise Reina would have died for nothing. If we could both have fled, even then she would not have done so."

Gorion gripped her shoulder. His eyes burned with painful intensity, and he said, "It will not be easy, child. It will never be easy. I will be here alongside you every step of the way, but even then there are struggles you must fight alone."

She said, "I know. And I promise you, I am ready for them."

He said, "I am pleased, Imoen. I would not have blamed you had you chosen the easier way of retreat again, but I am glad you have chosen to stay. You have some steel in you, yet." He smiled, and then continued, "When we are safe in Baldur's Gate, we will find out the state of affairs. Wars are being fought in the south, I know that much. But I do not know who wins, what cities have fallen and what sides have switched. I know too little, for my liking."

Imoen asked, "You have contacts, where we are going?"

Gorion smiled fondly, "I always have contacts, dear one."

* * *

Baldur's Gate was a changed city, from when Imoen had travelled here with Reina and the others. Gone, was the distinct air of freedom and openness. Now, constant patrols of the Flaming Fist moved through the crowds their eyes gazing warily about for trouble. Recent additions to the many walls made it clear that the people here expected a siege at any time. Hoardings, built from stone loomed ominously along each stretch of wall. Various catapults and other pieces of defensive artillery had been set up on the towers. What was particularly telling, was the many different banners hanging from the gatehouses of the city.

"The Grand Dukes must have called in almost every mercenary company they can find," Gorion murmured, as he pointed the banners out to Imoen. "There, see the banner with the silver badger? That company hails all the way from Cormyr. Baldur's Gate does not want to be caught undefended, that much is clear."

As they worked their way through the city, they were stopped at various checkpoints. Many merchants were complaining, but they were silenced quickly when the guards made it clear that everyone had to be monitored to ensure the safety of the populace. Besides, with the trouble in the south, most of the merchants had little easy access to other large cities in the south, making this a vital stop on their trading journeys. They could not afford to anger any officials of the city.

"Where are we headed anyway?" Imoen asked, three hours later, having been forced to queue at yet another checkpoint.

Gorion glanced at her and smiled, "The estate of a friend."

* * *

There was something very wrong, she thought, as soon as they entered the courtyard of the quaint estate. Vines of ivy climbed up beautiful, ancient stonework. Music from entertaining rooms elsewhere in the estate filtered through. Smells of exotic cooking made Imoen realise how much she missed expensive food, but despite all the luxuries hinted at, Imoen could not deny that there was a deep _wrongness_.

Gorion, she knew, felt the same. His brow was furrowed deeper than she had seen it for a long time. The page leading them through the archways and gardens of the estate did not seem at all nervous, instead chatting idly to the two of them. When Gorion had walked calmly to the door and told the page that 'the lady' was expecting him, there had been no argument at all.

By the time they reached a pair of heavy oaken doors, Imoen's skin was crawling with fear. The page, a sixteen-year-old youth more pretty than handsome, bowed to Imoen and Gorion and said, "I'll just see if she still wishes to receive you. If you will excuse me…"

It was at that point that they heard the screaming. It was an agonised, desperate screaming coming from what seemed quite an elderly throat indeed. Gorion paled and before either Imoen or the page could react he had kicked open the door, running into the main section of the estate. Imoen followed after him, preparing a spell for her defence in case it was needed.

The page was shouting now, "Guards! Guards! Help!" but Imoen knew any help would come too late, unless she and Gorion could do something. They dashed through the first room, a beautifully appointed living room. Gorion seemed to know exactly where he was going, leading a punishing, swift pace up a spiralling staircase.

By the time they had climbed two flights of stairs, the screaming had stopped. Gorion put his hand on the handle of one door, just as Imoen heard a cold female voice chant a spell. With a cry of desperation, Gorion slammed into the room. Imoen, following only seconds after him, saw the true grisly horror of the scene.

An elderly woman, much older than Gorion, lay dead on the floor of her bedroom. Her face was composed in death, calm despite the screams they had heard. Everything else was torn and bloodied. On the wall, written in the elderly woman's blood, were the words _"Too late, Gorion"_. Imoen turned, and saw on Gorion's face and expression that chilled her to the core.

There was no sadness, or if there was, it was buried deep. Instead, there was a terrible, cold rage. His face was impassive, but his fists were clenched tightly to his staff. For a long time, they both stood there. Below them, throughout the estate, they could hear the sounds of armoured guards rushing to protect a lady that no longer needed protecting.

Gorion finally spoke, as he kneeled beside the elderly lady. "Thus passes the Grand Duchess, Eleeanna." He gently held the woman's head against his breast, his eyes closed to hide whatever deep grief now surfaced. Imoen saw him begin to shake and gently rested her hand on his shoulder. She did not know this woman, but she could see that she had truly meant a lot to Gorion.

Her eyes drifted, inexorably, to the gruesome writing on the wall. _Too late, Gorion_.

Too late for what?


	5. Chapter Four: Eleeanna

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_1333 - 1334 DR_

At seventeen, Gorion was a cocky youth, confident in his knowledge of the world. His name was famous within Amn, having defended many innocents during the perils of the Trade War. When the Council of Six had finally been established and some order preserved, the common people whose lives had been saved by this young mage and his companions had clamoured for him to remain. Gorion however, had never particularly liked Amn. Everything there was far too mercantile for him. There was nothing an Amnian would not sell, even their family, to make a profit.

And when the adventuring company he had fought with for a year had scattered, he had travelled back to his master, hoping for some advice on what to do next. His adventures in the south for the past two years had given him a little power and considerable finances, but a fledgling wizard alone with a fortune soon became a dead wizard with no fortune.

"Many wizards," Thorlaster said, "fall soon after their first comrades break apart to look for other things. Only the very best manage to remain alive long enough to grow powerful."

"The priest of our company said his nephew worked for a court baroness in Baldur's Gate, and suggested I ask for employment at the same estate. Do you think that's a good idea? To speak to this baroness?"

"Did you catch her name, boy?"

Gorion frowned, "Eleeanna. Baroness Eleeanna."

Thorlaster chuckled, "Yes, I've heard of her, though I remember her when she was sixteen and just the daughter of a turnip salesman. She is a court baroness, now? That _is _impressive. I once offered to take her one as my apprentice you know. Her father however, had ideas of marriage in his head. A rather mundane ambition, if you ask me. Marriage can come whenever you wish and can bring only what society wishes to bring to you. Magic on the other hand, can bring anything you can dream of."

His eyes had shone as he considered Gorion, "I think I might be able to help you with this, Gorion. Tell you what, if you spend a week or so here – I have a few scrolls you might be interested in studying – I will send a letter to Baldur's Gate with the next caravan that passes along the road. I shall wax most eloquent on all your qualities."

And so it was decided.

* * *

The baroness was the most beautiful woman Gorion had seen in his life – and he had seen a fair few. His adventures had often been interspersed with liaisons, sometimes casual and sometimes more serious, with different women. Yet none of them compared with this godlike example of perfection that stood before him now.

Her dress was green velvet, hugging her form in a way that accentuated her figure without seeming deliberate. She had soft locks of blonde hair, kept away from her eyes by a clasp of trailing silver chains studded with emeralds. Even at the age of thirty she looked stunning. Despite having fought undead, orcs and human mercenaries and having faced life-threatening situations many times, Gorion found he could do little but stare.

"Well, young man, I have a _glowing_ report from your master, Thorlaster. I take it you are expecting me to hire you?"

Gorion blushed at her direct gaze, and stammered, "Y-yes, your majesty!"

She blinked, and then laughed with outright amusement, "Baldur's Gate does not have queens, sir. I am to be called 'my lady', or 'ma'am', is that clear?"

He nodded earnestly, "Yes, ma'am."

Eleeanna advanced towards him in silence, tapping her index finger on her soft lips. "Do you have any other clothes, than those disgustingly vulgar robes, _Gorion_?"

He shook his head, "No, ma'am. I have money, though. I can purchase others."

She smirked then, "Nonsense. I shall not have a page of mine buying his own clothes, and then making my estates look messy in front of important guests. No, you will wear what I pick out for you, is that sufficient?"

Gorion nodded, "Yes, ma'am!"

The baroness smiled, and then gestured gently towards the servants' quarters, "Go and find my steward. He will show you to your quarters. I will summon you when I have obtained the clothes you will be wearing. Once you have the clothes, your employment will begin. Pay… pay will be ten gold coins a month, including board, food and obviously your clothing. If there is anything you desperately want, but cannot afford, you have but to ask." She chuckled, "I may be a noblewoman, but I am not cruel."

And then she was gone, heading from the entrance hall towards her own private chambers. The sweet scent of lavender perfume remained however. Before Gorion went to speak to the steward, he made sure he had breathed as much of it in as possible. His heart thudded in anticipation of seeing her again.

* * *

His employment at the estate of the baroness was awful, for a month and a half. It seemed to Gorion that he was constantly completing meaningless tasks. "Clean out the latrines", the steward said. "Scent the baroness' pillows with a single drop of lavender oil", "Go to the northern end of the city and bring back a single crystal bead". Endless, ridiculous tasks, which wore at Gorion's patience until the baroness he had once thought of as beautiful came to occupy a place of hatred in his heart.

One fateful summer day, Gorion had been placed on the garden detail, working alongside the other pages to root out weeds from the rose garden. It was gruelling work, especially that summer, which was brutally hot. As the pages grunted and sweated, wrenching stubborn weeds from the flowerbeds, the baroness stepped out, trailed by a small entourage of slight, pretty maids dressed in flowing dresses.

Instantly, the pages stopped tugging at roses, stood, and bowed as they had been trained to do. Gorion, still fairly new to the job, was a few seconds behind everyone else and his bow was faintly clumsy. Although he was looking down at the ground, he was aware of the baroness' eyes upon him.

"Gorion. You need more practice. At the rate I am paying you, I expect far more _grace_ when you bow. Lady Sune knows what indignity would be visited upon me if one of the Grand Dukes came to my estate and saw that clumsy bow. I would be laughed out of the city for employing those whose mental faculties are not sufficient for the job."

He knew she was joking. Whenever the baroness met him, she always baited him. But for some reason, in the heat of the day whilst his hands were cut and sore from thorns and weed-scratches, he did not find it funny. "I am _more_ than _sufficiently _able for this job, _baroness_. I've been flaming well casting spells that most people my age would not be able to even comprehend, let alone _cast_! And instead, I am here plucking _weeds_ from the flowerbed of a spoiled, over-indulged _brat_!"

Although the garden had been silent before, to Gorion, it seemed as if it somehow became more silent. Uncomfortable tension crackled, for a moment. Yet he did not care, that much. Even when the baroness turned a rather cool gaze to stare directly at him, he did not flinch, or blush or step back. He stood his ground, lifted his chin and then folded his arms.

A long time, the silence stretched. Finally, having quirked her head as if to study him from another angle, the baroness smirked, "Excellent. I was wondering when the rest of Thorlaster's words would reveal the truth." She flicked her wrist at the rest of the people in the garden, "Leave us."

She waited until all the pages and maids had left, and then sighed, "I must admit, I am surprised the explosion did not happen earlier. I was running out of pointless errands for you to complete."

Gorion blinked. He did not know what to say.

In outright amusement at his expression, she patted his cheek and laughed. "Oh, dear. For someone _more_ than _sufficiently_ able, you take a long while to see the truth, don't you? Dear, Thorlaster and I are good friends. He probably only told you… let me see… that he was once 'considering' taking me as his apprentice. Is that right?"

Mutely, Gorion nodded, and she chuckled, "Never changes, does he, the old rascal. Gorion, Thorlaster did offer to teach me the magical arts. And I learned a little from him. But I never had the passion he had for frog's eyes. No, my art is politics, and intrigue. We help each other out every so often. If I need a spell, he provides it. If he needs information or influence, I provide it. You see, Gorion, I only employ the very best, those who will be able to do something for me. And when I read the letter from dearest Thorlaster, I knew I had to employ you. You remind me of someone, Gorion, someone I knew from very long ago, someone that I loved with wild abandon."

Her index finger found his lips then, and she gently stroked it. Gorion swallowed heavily, and found that although some cowardly part inside him wanted to back away, to run and hide, everything else inside him wanted not to feel her index finger on his lips, but her kiss. He whispered, "Y-you l-love me?"

She laughed at that, "No, dear boy. A widower; a baroness… she has no place for love. But desire, companionship, admiration… that is something different. Do you think that is satisfactory to you, Gorion? Can you cope with that?"

Sometimes Gorion wondered if he ever bothered to reply, or if he just kissed her.

* * *

Life at the estate seemed idyllic, after that. Gorion found his work more pleasant. Indeed, his greatest worry in those days was trying to find the time to study his spells in between his various chores during the day and the various more pleasurable activities with the baroness during the evenings.

Gradually, when he proved his ability in other departments other than lovemaking, he grew to be trusted with more responsibility. When the old steward retired to spend time with family, Gorion, with his head for numbers and letters, was the perfect choice to succeed him. Alongside the baroness, he travelled throughout the Sword Coast, advising her and taking advice, on the future of her mercantile company.

Waterdeep, Athkatla, even the distant Cormyrean cities, all these and more Gorion visited as part of Eleeanna's entourage. He saw how her influence in Baldur's Gate extended elsewhere in Faerun. Even in Arabel, where the locals were notably withdrawn and insular, she was welcomed as an honoured guest. It was during his time with the baroness, that Gorion truly learned the power of trade. Had it not been for the vast wealth she owned, Eleeanna would never have been as important as she was.

At least, so it seemed on the surface.

* * *

Gorion had returned to his room several hours before, having entertained the baroness. His sat at his desk, hunched over his spellbook reading by candlelight. The scroll he was studying was truly fascinating. A gift from the baroness, it looked on the surface to be a form of abjuration. He would not know for certain, until he had studied it for several more months. It was magic considerably beyond his ability, but whilst that might daunt lesser wizards, he relished the challenge. If he mastered this scroll, it meant he had progressed far indeed.

Everything was rather quiet, the only sounds being the general hub of the city beyond the estate walls. Gorion took a moment to look up from the scroll and spellbook, gazing at the garden just below his window. Even in the depths of winter, this garden was bright. A gnome illusionist had been hired to set many witch lights floating about, lending a mystical quality to the gardens.

Of course, whilst the illusionist had been here, Eleeanna had spoken to him about prospective expansion of her company into Lantan. That idea had been rebuffed rather quickly, but the gnome had been quite enamoured of the 'compromise', of entering into partnership, letting some gnomish goods be traded through the baroness' company. Of course, Gorion knew Eleeanna had never had any intention of expanding her company into Lantan. Most probably, so did the gnome. Those sort of subtleties in business went over his head.

As he stared out into the garden, he saw something move.

Only for a second and it was the faintest of movements. Perhaps it was a moth straying too close to the globes of arcane light and casting a long shadow? Yet as Gorion was about to return to his spellbook, he heard – or thought he heard – very faint, quiet steps on the staircase outside his bedchamber. Only one chamber was on the floor above his, and that was the private bower of the baroness.

_Better safe than sorry_, a voice murmured in his head.

With a sigh, Gorion rolled the scroll up, placing it safely into his belt. Since it had been bought for him, he never let it out of his sight. "You're showing more adoration to that stupid scroll than you're showing to _me_, Gorion," Eleeanna had pouted one night. Nonetheless, Gorion never liked to leave powerful magic where just anyone could read it.

Stepping out of his chamber, he noticed that the hall was colder than it had been when he walked back from Eleeanna's room. He frowned. None of the pages had been moving around, so the doors should not have been opened. Upstairs, he heard a muted thud, a sudden grunt and then silence.

Then he heard louder footfalls, many people, upstairs.

Launching himself into action, Gorion sprinted upstairs. He called to mind the spells in his memory, in case he had to defend himself. He could not say exactly why he felt there was a problem. He just had a feeling something was wrong. He saw that the door to the baroness' room was wide open.

He charged in.

Eleeanna stood in regal silence, wearing a silken nightshift. Three men stood in front of her. One was robed in tattered brown robes but carried a long skull-topped staff. The other two wore black leather armour and held sharp daggers in their hands. One other man lay dead on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood, with a small lady's knife in his neck. Eleeanna then, had defended herself against one of the intruders.

"Who is _this_?" one of the armoured intruders grunted.

"A mageling; one of her fancies. He probably imagines himself to be some sort of hero, charging in to rescue his maiden fair. Isn't that right, baroness?" the man holding the skull-topped staff peered at the baroness, who met his gaze with one of ice.

"What do you want, Marellius?"

"My superiors have deemed that it is time for you to die. A shame, I think, to waste such beauty. But nonetheless, it must be done."

Eleeanna moved then, fast. She leaped backwards, placing her four-poster bed between the three intruders and herself. Reaching to the ceiling, she tugged on a single red rope. Loudly, above them, a bell started to toll, clanging a warning. The man known as Marellius cursed and grunted, "Kill her! I need to deal with the boy!"

He turned to regard Gorion with a predatory smile. "Thorlaster's apprentice, I hear. Let's see how well he trains his children nowadays."

With a sonorous voice, he uttered a few words, flinging his hand out towards Gorion. Instantly, five beams of red light span the short distance between them both, bursting into fragments of energy as they struck Gorion. Some small pain lanced through him, but Gorion had at least fought in enough mage battles now not to give up having been struck by a magic missile incantation.

_Prudence is the first rule of the sane and live wizard_, Thorlaster's voice whispered in his mind. Gorion smiled, mentally telling his master that he could work that one out for himself, before spreading his hands apart, uttering an incantation which surrounded him in a bright white light that would keep the magic of Marellius at bay.

Elsewhere, he could hear Eleeanna trying a desperate game of dodging with the two armed intruders. She was flinging everything she could get to hand into their path. Gorion risked looking at her struggle and saw one of the intruders was already lying on the ground, stunned by a golden vase which Eleeanna wielded like a mace.

"Pay attention, boy!"

It was all the warning Gorion had, as the magic of the enemy wizard washed over him. His magical defence crumbled before the onslaught and flames scorched his skin. The shockwaves of whatever spell Marellius had cast sent him tumbling to the floor, screaming in pain.

Urgently now, Gorion opened his fists and issued a barked magical command. Magical missiles sped towards Marellius, but vanished into mist, obviously shattered by protections he had prepared in advance. When Marellius' next spell came, it left Gorion terribly weak, his skin smouldering. He could think of no magic he had that was strong enough to defeat this wizard.

Except the scroll.

_Sometimes, it is prudent to be rash and impetuous,_ Thorlaster urged.

Gorion actually found himself smiling as he tugged the scroll from his belt. In his head, a mad, dangerous scheme leaped. He gazed at Marellius confidently and then shouted to Eleeanna, "Get down and behind something, ma'am!"

Marellius blinked, perplexed. Gorion however, wasted no time. He started to read from the scroll. At first, he made every effort to read the scroll correctly. Indeed, he was surprised by the fact that he could even make the first three words come out as they were meant to. The first six words were difficult, terribly so, but once he had uttered the first six words, the spell's power had begun to gather.

It was then that he started to run towards Marellius, now deliberately inserting the most dangerous magical commands he knew _backwards_ into his incantation. The eyes of the attacking wizard widened in horror. "What are you _doing_? What… what…"

Gorion felt the scroll catch fire first. Then he felt a great force lift him up, slamming him into the ceiling which crumbled around him. He was barely aware of anything when the terribly bright flare of light erupted. By the time magic flames started to tear at his skin, he was not aware of anything.

* * *

"-_deliberately _misread the scroll?"

A chuckle.

"-esourceful, isn't he?"

"Eleeanna alive?"

Gorion jerked himself awake, as he heard the last question hover without answer. He could not see, even when he opened his eyes, but he managed to croak out, "El- El- baroness… is… El… is she safe?"

A comforting, strong hand pushed him back down onto the bed, and said, "She is fine, Gorion. Angry. Raging, rather, at the damage you caused to her building. You do know you blasted half of the building into dust? Nothing left of the wizard. Eleeanna threw herself off the balcony when she worked out what you were doing, you know. Clever girl."

He recognised that voice.

"Thorlaster?"

"Yes, my boy. And when you're better, I need to have a word with you about what you're not to do with magic. You could have opened a portal to the Abyss right in the middle of the city."

Gorion shook his head. Although he was weak, he managed to explain himself rather well. "No, no… I knew what I was doing. It was _guided_. Activate the magic with the first six words and then substitute any other qualifying magical verbs for ones that relate to destruction."

The voice of Thorlaster snorted, "I know what you did, boy. But didn't it occur to you that there is more than one level of existence? You think of destruction and you think fireball and lightning. Luckily, that is what happened. But what if magic's laws had heard your spell and decided that destruction meant the fabric between this world and that of the demons?"

Gorion cursed, "Sorry, master. I didn't… didn't think."

"Thorlaster, are you trying to discourage quick thinking?" The other voice, male, was one that Gorion did not recognise. "He managed to kill Marellius and save Eleeanna. If it was up to me, I'd say he deserves a pin for that."

"Marcus, you have about as much subtlety as a walrus in heat."

"How droll, Thorlaster. How _very, very _droll."

"Will you two old women please be silent? I am trying to restore my patient's sight, here? And as much as you both might think the healing gifts of the gods are a trifle compared to your magical might, _I don't_!"

There was a rather bashful silence, from Thorlaster and whoever the other man was, followed by Thorlaster's gruff, embarrassed, "Sorry, Hel. Won't happen again."

The female voice that had reprimanded the two muttered an appeal to Ilmater and suddenly light poured into Gorion's eyes. After several moments, he found he could see clearly. Thorlaster stood alongside a younger, white-robed wizard and a woman wearing homespun brown robes. In the doorway, Gorion noticed, stood Eleeanna, who managed to look impeccably groomed. When she saw him look at her, she smiled, "I'd like to thank you for saving my life, Gorion. I've been frantic for two weeks, wondering if you would live or not."

Gorion was stunned, "Two _weeks_?"

Thorlaster nodded, "Aye, boy. You don't do things by halves, do you?"

* * *

Though he did not know it till several days after, his glimpse of Marcus, Hel, Thorlaster and Eleeanna was Gorion's first meeting with all the key figures of the Harpers in that province. It was an organisation which he would for several years serve as an ally, running errands both for Eleeanna and for the wider council as a whole. Five years later, he would be given the pin marking him forevermore as a member of the mysterious, secretive organisation which has for years guarded the good folk of Faerun. 


	6. Chapter Five: Those Who Harp

**Chapter Five: **Those Who Harp

"Those who harp are never truly alone."

Imoen, standing beside Gorion as he knelt before the coffin, heard those words whispered. The funeral held a heavy sense of sadness and worry, but from Gorion all she could still feel was cold rage. Whether at himself or the perpetrator, Imoen did not know. All she knew was that he was devastated by the death of the Grand Duchess. And who would not be, when they had lost someone they cared dearly about.

Since they had appeared before the Grand Duke Eltan, Imoen had taken to wandering the streets of the city. She always went hooded of course and wary of even children that came too close to her. _Anyone could seek to take your life, dearest… as you well know. Guard well your safety, please_. Gorion's warning had been a blessing, of sorts. At first he had not wanted her to wander. He had wanted her to remain with him and Eltan as the two discussed the war in the south and the murder of Eleeanna. After a time, he had relented.

For too long Imoen had hidden from the world in secluded places. She had not heard news of the war for at least a year. Having wandered through the streets of the city, part of her wanted to return to that seclusion. Most gossip spoke of great battles being fought by Anomen and Jaheira in Tethyr. Yet the war was not just limited to their struggle. In Amn, a massive force led by two ogre magi had allied with the Four Bhaalspawn, seizing most of the southern Coinland.

Of course, for the past six days all talk had been concerned with the death of their beloved Grand Duchess. Their Duchess, they called her. Only elevated to rank two years ago, she had nonetheless been popular. Beautiful even when aged, she had captivated the hearts of all, uniting them even more than the grizzled Eltan and his mercenary Flaming Fist.

"She was once my lover, you know, Imoen."

Gorion finally spoke, as he stood up from beside the coffin. He took her arm and led her to the side, as behind them a line of people waited to pay their respects to the coffin. Imoen sighed, and awkwardly patted his arm. "We… we have all lost those we love, Gorion. They will be avenged."

He nodded, "That is my hope, dear child. But I doubt that we have the power. You see, I have been speaking with Eltan about the war, and… I believe I now know who it is we face. I believe I know what hand it is that directs the Four… the very hand that bypassed all the wards of the Grand Duchess to slay her so capriciously."

Imoen swallowed heavily, and croaked, "Who?" In the eyes of her father she could see stark fear. His voice shook in a way she had never heard before. Gorion had faced death with courage and firmness to his voice, but he quailed at this subject as if it was too terrible to contemplate.

"Her name is Amelyssan the Blackhearted. A priestess of Bhaal. Powerful, evil, insane and… very, very beautiful."

Something in his tone there struck Imoen as odd. Indeed, she noticed now that he spoke with a deep ache in his voice. His hands were clasped tightly into the silk of state robes to prevent them from shaking. Out of respect for him, Imoen did not press the matter, merely continued to walk alongside him. Finally, he managed to find his voice. "Once, she was called Melissan."

At that, Imoen stumbled. "_Melissan?"_

Gorion moved his hand to steady her and nodded, "Yes, child, Melissan. It is… what she… what she… sometimes calls herself."

Imoen moved her hand to her mouth, "_Gods…_ it was she… she told Reina to try to defeat Yaga-Shura, she directed her to kill Yaga-Shura… but… but why? It cannot be her… why direct a foe to destroy your ally?"

Her foster-father sighed, "Because she follows the prophecies, Imoen. She… she always had a talent for instinctively understanding prophecies." A bitter chuckle escaped his lips at that. "Some of my best work came when I worked alongside her."

Imoen raised both brows, "You worked with a priestess of Bhaal?"

Gorion shook her head. "No, child. I worked with a Harper."

And at that Gorion turned away, as if to hide the gaping horror that must surely shine loom in his eyes. Perhaps it was to hide his pain from her. For Imoen it did not matter. Instinctively, fondly, desperately, call it what you will, she moved to embrace her father. "It will… it will work out, Gorion. I _promise_ you."

He started to weep in her arms. Holding close to him, Imoen noticed how light and fragile he seemed. In every quiet weeping sniffle, she could sense pains that had lingered for most of his life. Perhaps it was the call of her dark blood? She had always been able to empathise with people… was able to understand them more… but what she felt as she held to Gorion for dear life, filled her with wild grief.

Above all, Gorion felt lost and _alone_.

And that hurt her more than anything she had ever felt.

* * *

"Gorion, the situation is grim. My last missive from Amn was terrifying for me. They are considering entering a truce with the ogre magi, granting them rulership over southern Amn in exchange for loyalty and regular tithes, as well as protection from elven raids and such like."

Duke Eltan looked haggard and drawn. His eyes were bleary, as if he had not slept for weeks. Gorion sat opposite him at his desk, whilst Imoen stood to one side, listening but not speaking. She felt she had little to contribute. There was no need for her to sit. Indeed, whilst Eltan had been pleasant enough, she doubted he _wanted_ her there at all. He had been one of the people who had tried to convince her to take up the fight personally.

"Imoen, you saved us once, please, do it again. If you march alongside me, I will take every last member of the Flaming Fist into Amn to save the people there. If you still wish it, I shall lead them again into the south, to die if need be to ensure that Anomen and Jaheira do not fight alone against dragons, drow and Helm only knows what horrors else."

She had refused him, and she suspected still that he had not forgiven her.

"They told you that?" Gorion seemed surprised.

Eltan snorted, "Don't be a fool, Gorion. Of course not. I have a contact in the Shadow Thieves who sold me the information. If Amn is about to accept such obvious evil into its service, then it could potentially make Amn the centre of a new dark empire. And what better first target for this new empire, than the lonely city of Baldur's Gate? I.."

He trailed off, awkward for a moment.

Gorion sighed, "I know what you are going to say, Eltan. And it is a mistake."

The Duke shook his head, "Perhaps. But though it fills me with pain to say this, Gorion. I cannot give you even one unit of the Flaming Fist. I must continue to recruit more soldiers and to ready Baldur's Gate for a siege. If enemies come through Amn towards Baldur's Gate then… I will treat for peace with them, from a position of strength."

Imoen blinked, "Treat for _peace_ with dragons, drow, giants and _ogres_? You _cannot_ be serious!"

Eltan looked at Imoen and narrowed his eyes, "Don't you _dare_ take that tone with me, girl. I have sent good men to die, alongside Jaheira. Two hundred of my best soldiers that are now trapped in Tethyr fighting a war that _you_ fled from. If I must act to save the people of this city then that is what I must do. Even if it dooms those I care about – and believe me, I care about Jaheira and my soldiers in Tethyr – I _must_ act."

"But you told me once, that we could march… march to the south. March to the south and save the world, Eltan. That is what you said… and I am here, now. We can do it. Rally the Fist, gather your allies… three thousand of the Flaming Fist marshalled to aid Amn's southern forces. We could still win! Gorion and I have magic, the wizards of Baldur's Gate could ride with us as well… and what of Waterdeep? They would send aid, surely! They wish, if nothing else, for trade to be restored."

Imoen finished speaking, suddenly feeling a passion she had not felt for a long time. Gorion had awakened _something_ in the Friendly Arm Inn, but now she felt alive again. There _was_ hope. Their forces were scattered, those who wanted to resist the dark powers, but the forces were _there_. Yet in response to her outburst, Eltan shook his head, "That was two years ago, Imoen. Two long years of war and bloodshed for the south and hardship for Baldur's Gate. We might have done something then, had we acted. There is no hope left for us now. Not for those of us who stayed fighting whilst you had your little… _vacation_."

It was his scornful dismissal of her that made her erupt.

"Vacation?_ Vacation?_ Is _that_ what you call it? How _old_ do you think I am, Eltan? _How old do you think I am!_ You are forty-six! Forty six years. I was sixteen when I left Candlekeep! _Sixteen!_ _Seventeen_ when I was captured, tortured and… and… and _violated_ by Irenicus!"

She struggled to draw breath, feeling her anger grow to a searing proportion.

_"Eighteen _when I saw my beloved sister smashed apart by a fire giant. _Nineteen_ when I had my little _vacation_ during which I killed assassin after assassin after assassin eager for my blood! And now I'm twenty and I want to know _where_ my _childhood_ has gone and how in the Nine Hells I am expected to save the world when people treated me like you did… when… when I just couldn't cope any more!"

Gripped by this endless torrent of anger, she lost sight of Eltan and Gorion. She knew they were there, but compared to her words and her anger, they were unimportant. As she screamed her fury, she could imagine all that she had lost, all that she had suffered.

"You like to call me the Eternal Child, you all do! Imoen the laughing one, they called me! Nalia, Reina, Jaheira! 'Always cheerful, aren't you little Immy?' they'd say to me… 'Always cheerful, eh?' 'Tell use a joke, Immy, tell us a joke!'. But none of you realise that I listen to voices in my head every night urging me to join the darkness. Kill him, they say. Rip her throat out, they order. Stab your foster-father who has loved you ceaselessly in the back and feel his blood pulsing across your hand, they urge. Well _that's_ why I went on my _little_ vacation, Eltan! That's why I couldn't… I _couldn't_ lead an army. Can you _possibly_ imagine what the voices would be like if I lead any army? If I lead them into battle and feel thousands of people die?"

And then she stopped, her voice cracking finally. There were no tears. She had reached a point when rage had taken her completely, when there was no sorrow only this pure central force of incandescent anger. Eltan had closed his eyes, his face pale against her tirade. There was a long, tense silence. Even Gorion looked at her with a little fear. Finally however, the duke she had once rescued from death with Reina cleared his throat.

"Imoen, I am sorry for what I said. I truly am. But I cannot send my people to their deaths. I am sorry." He turned to Gorion, his voice turning almost pleading, "_Please_, Gorion. Tell me you understand… if Amn capitulates, and Tethyr falls and Baldur's Gate shows these monsters that we are their enemies then we stand alone. We must be willing to preserve the life and future of the city, even if it means… means…" He swore, "Gods, even if it means betraying Jaheira and my soldiers to their death on a foreign soil."

Gorion nodded, "I understand, Eltan. I do. We… we will take our leave tomorrow morning. With look we can cut across country and reach Tethyr in a week, maybe a little longer. Jaheira and this Anomen Delryn I have heard so much about might be able to suggest something for us to do."

Imoen sighed, "If they are willing to even look at me."

Eltan considered Imoen for a long moment and nodded as if to himself. "Imoen, not many people know that when Balduran founded this city – as a fighter – he also possessed a wizardly counsellor. Her name was Saeresil and she was a half-elven enchantress. The consort, they say, of the last Amnian king to rule over his people. It was her plan, the ancient records say, to name Balduran as king of Amn, to seize control from corrupt mercantile families. In a ledger, in her spellbook which is warded from all eyes even mine, she is said to have written the location of a lost sword of Amn, a sword that will name the true king. Balduran died before she could retrieve it and name him king."

She frowned, "And… you want me to…?"

Eltan drummed his fingers on his desk, "Amn's Council wishes to take it out of the war, I cannot imagine the soldiers that have fought for two years agree. Nor do I imagine the innocent refugees in the north would like to see their country give way so easily to invaders. If a… if a hero were to rise:, a warrior bearing the blade of their last king, the common people would rally around that hero. And perhaps then, if Amn's people went to war, Baldur's Gate would be free to go to war."

Imoen narrowed her eyes, "It will also conveniently create a revolution against a powerful group of Amnians who lead a nation that has been a trading rival with you and Waterdeep for many decades. And during the revolution, perhaps merchants from Baldur's Gate will make a pleasant profit?"

The duke flinched as if struck, "I cannot deny that I would desire greatly for Amn to be run by a just king rather than the corrupt, shambling mess it is in now. Nor can I deny that _some_ within Baldur's Gate will take advantage of the inevitable interregnum. However, I can _assure_ you that I am only trying to help."

Gorion murmured, "You truly think it is the only way, Eltan?"

He frowned, remaining silent for a long time, before nodding, "Yes, Gorion. I think it is the only way. Everywhere, we are outnumbered. We need to defeat some of our enemies and try to unite our forces. I just pray we can get reinforcements and support to Tethyr and Delryn before they are overrun."

Imoen sighed, and gazed at Eltan quietly, "Show me this spellbook, then. I will try to track down this blade and a suitable heir."

* * *

Side by side, they looked at the thunderstorm that had rolled over the city throughout the evening. Heavy, thick droplets of water rushed down in an endless sheet and every so often sheets of white-blue lightning illuminated the parapets of the duchal palace at which they stayed.

"You are set on this course, Imoen?"

"Yes, father."

"Then I shall call to the Harpers. I know not which of my old comrades still live. But a call for aid will not go unanswered, even if it comes from one most still believe is dead. Imoen, do you have any reservations against working with harpers?"

"No. If they can grant us a chance of success in this endeavour, I would welcome their support."

There was a long silence, and then Gorion whispered, "Then I want you to have this."

Imoen looked down at his hands, and saw a glittering silver pin clutched tightly between his wrinkled index finger and thumb. She could not help but gasp, "You want me to become a Harper?"

He smiled at that, fondly, "You have always _been_ a Harper. I have been alive for a little over two weeks, and came straight to you before I even located any of my fellow agents. You were my first priority. Yet for the past few days here in Baldur's Gate, I have made at least one contact with one of my brothers… and I have heard most of what you and Reina did whilst here, and in Amn. Always you have worked for goodness without pride. I would value you as a Harper, child. And whilst the method may be rather… unconventional, all true Harpers would acknowledge everything you have done for the Realms."

Imoen took the silver harp pin with a soft sigh. For something so tiny, it seemed to thrum with power. A flare of lightning gave it a gentle glow for a fraction of a second. Something in its light innocence struck Imoen heavily. "It is beautiful, father."

Gorion nodded, "And one of the few that is enchanted. It once belonged to someone I cared… very much for." He took is from her again, and pinned it on the inside of her collar. "Remember too, child, that those who harp… are never truly alone."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thank you to all the reviewers for your kind (and helpful) comments so far! I'm glad people like it, because I am really enjoying writing it. As it is a tragedy, expect a lot of heartache and devastation for everyone. I also try (nowadays) not to do an Author's Note in every chapter, so I just wanted to say that whilst updates are few and far between, they _will_ continue. Also, in answer to Jessie, the Flaming Fist _are_ mercenaries, my dear. :) They're just on a long-term hire from the city. Duke Eltan is actually (as well as being a Grand Duke) the man in charge of the company. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know what you think! Ol 


	7. Chapter Six: Zephyra

**Chapter Six: **Zephyra

_1341 DR_

To Gorion, raised in the beautiful but rather rustic Sword Coast, the immense privilege and sumptuous appearance of Calimport was bewildering. He walked quietly through the sandy streets of the city. Many of the bricks gleamed brightly in the glaring sunlight, showing every colour under the sun, placed in wonderful patterns. There were many slender minarets and towers reaching high into the sky. One thing that struck him particularly was the difference in architecture throughout the city. Some places, there was an old tower, slightly crumbling and ancient and just a few steps away was a beautiful marble plaza constructed a few years ago. There was such variety here, he thought as he threaded his way slowly through the thick, pressing clouds of turbaned citizens.

As he wandered through the streets, he every so often patted both his component pouch and his purse. All his friends had warned him about Calimport. Of course, it could not be _that_ much more dangerous to the missions he had completed for the Harpers already. After all, he had seen many foes dead or humbled since he had been given the pin two years back.

"Boy! Stop your whimpering and stuttering! Bhaelros take you!"

He turned his gaze to see a bronze-skinned man with a turban kicking a young boy who lay huddled on the ground. Gorion frowned, doubly so when the man used the Calishite name for Talos, the god of Destruction. The boy was weeping, screaming, begging for the punishment to stop.

"F-father! P-p-p… p-p-p… please s- please stop!"

"Bhaelros rid me of this turbulent son… Khalid! I will give you one last chance! Stand _up_! You will disgrace my family if others of higher class see you warbling and snivelling like a little girl. Stand _up!_"

Again the bronze-skinned man launched a vicious kick into the midriff of a tiny boy who could not have been more than twelve years old. Gorion sighed, and though he knew that he should not – it might endanger his mission, after all – he stepped forward.

"Sir."

The man plastered a sudden oily, slick smile upon his face. He stepped back and clasped his hands at his waist. He wore a beautifully embroidered silken robe of white and gold. He bowed his head very faintly to Gorion. "Ah, good traveller. Welcome to my humble abode. I am a merchant, pleased to be at your disposal. You wish a good rest and food? Perhaps a little entertainment? I have many slaves within should you wish more succulent pleasures."

Gorion frowned in automatic distaste, "No thank you."

Instantly the man's smile vanished, "Then why do you approach me, peasant?"

The young boy was now curled into a foetal position shivering in fright and stammering wildly. After a long sigh, Gorion said, "I came to ensure that you would no longer beat your son. I dislike such cruelty and oppression in an individual. It does not rest well with you, sir."

For a moment the man looked enraged, until suddenly he started to laugh. It was a cruel laugh, echoing with the sing-song accent of the Calishites. He snapped his fingers, and barked a command in his native tongue. From the domed building behind him stepped two warriors wearing heavy chainmail.

"This _peasant_ seeks to interfere in my affairs, servants. Please deal with him."

Gorion folded his arms, "Tell me good sir, are there any rules against magic, in your fair city?"

That, at least, gave the two slender guards pause as they made to d raw their blades. One of them even stepped back. In Calimport, the art of a mage was respected, valued and above all else feared. The merchant twirled his finger through his goatee. "You wish to take my son for your own, revered mage?"

Growling at the implication, Gorion said, "No. I seek to ensure that _you_ will no longer harm him." He looked at the young boy, still prone and shivering. Had the damage already been done? Had this young boy been permanently damaged by the systematic abuse he had experienced at the cruel, careless hands of this Calishite merchant?

"Then we can arrange something. I grow tired of his whining. I would see him suitably apprenticed. Take him as your apprentice, for a price and both of us shall be satisfied."

Gorion narrowed his eyes. "What is your price for an apprenticeship?"

The merchant twirled his small goatee, "Oh, six thousand golds." An insincere smile flickered across his face. "I do so love the child of an elven bitch, you see. Reminds me of such a succulent eve I spent with a slave girl. A pity she died, of course. Elves do not take well to captivity, it seems. Wasted away before my eyes, she did. Just closed her eyes one night… and died. Willed herself to death, she did."

For added effect, he kicked the boy, Khalid, again, "And she left me with you, my son. Bitch. Couldn't even produce a strong son. They _said_ elven blood made you strong. Bah! It made you a snivelling girl!"

Gorion snarled a single word and in an instant the merchant was held fast. He stepped closer to him. "Touch the boy again and I will kill you. Then I shall be away from this place as fast as my spells can carry me. Which is very fast indeed, you peace of Calishite slaver scum. Now, I shall take the boy as my apprentice. Here. Take one hundred gold pieces."

It was a bluff. Had Gorion killed the man, he would have been largely unable to flee before wizards loyal to the syl-pasha arrived to take him prisoner or just kill him. Justice in Calimport was fast, cruel and there was rarely any trial.

"And do not even think about trying to track me down to have me killed, you petty little man." With that last word, Gorion moved his hand ever so slightly. To anyone else it would have looked like Gorion had just dropped a pouch of gold upon the floor. To the merchant however, it had looked a little different. Using a hand-trick, Gorion has removed his Harper pin from his collar and shown it to the held merchant in the space of a few seconds.

Gently easing the still stammering boy to his feet, Gorion moved back into the crowds of Calimport, guiding his new charge to the safety of a friend.

* * *

Six nights later, Gorion sat in the antechamber of one of the more sumptuous residences of the city. Working to establish contacts within Calimport, Gorion was at present enjoying the gala of one of the minor pashas, through the manipulations of his Harper friend, an Amnian trader by the name of Behl Mourn. It was that trader who had promised to look after Khalid. Behl was a good man, if a bit lax in matters of strict adherence to the law.

The gala was spectacular. There were three hundred barely-clad Calishite dancers, all with their bronzed skin and soft silk almost translucent. With spiced wine, delicious food and the aromatic scents that filled the antechamber, Gorion felt his mind beginning to relax in a way it had not for a long time. Everywhere he looked, there was a beautiful dancer spinning and gyrating in a way that made the blood churn passionately through his body. Yet there was one dancer in particular who drew his eye.

A typical Calishite in terms of ebon hair and bronze skin, nonetheless her beauty was unmatched throughout the chamber. When she danced, she did so with a lithe grace that left many speechless with desire. At her ankles, she wore bells and in her two hands she carried tambourines. She wore gentle yellow silk in the Calishite style, which revealed her curved, gentle skin. Her face was both innocent and teasing at the same time, managing to dart amazingly bright almond eyes daringly at many of the men in the room.

"Who is _that_, Behl?"

The trader grinned, "That, Gorion, is Zephyra. A free woman still, surprisingly. No pasha has been able to tame her. She has fought off kidnappers personally. Even a mage has fallen to her blades. Why, do you wish to try your hand at seducing her? I've heard you've known many women, Gorion, but she is beyond any of us in this room today."

Gorion sighed, "No… I am a gypsy."

Behl blinked, "I beg your pardon? You lost me there, dear fellow."

Gorion however, was already standing. He glanced at Behl with a smile, "It is too long since I have danced with wild abandon with the thrill of the music in my veins and the pulse of the tambourine in my mind. I might not remember it correctly, but sometimes I dream of my dancing. The whirling movements, the beat… get me a tambourine, Behl. I will dance with Zephyra."

* * *

She smirked, cocking her head to the side as he stepped into the centre of the antechamber. The other dancing girls had stopped, now. Behl had spread the word that there was a man who wished to dance with Zephyra and instantly the room had hushed. Many had tried to match her grace in the movements of the dance and failed. Looking at the rather handsome, lithe northerner wearing robes that were a year out of fashion, they saw the opportunity for some entertainment.

"You said you wish to _dance_ with me, boy? I do not think we can dance the dance you wish before all these men and women. Unless there is a… voyeur… within you, 'mm?" Her voice was as exotic as her person, whispering and caressing the syllables with an accent of thick oriental quality to it.

Gorion bowed at the waist, ignoring her taunt, "I seek to dance with you, my lady, if I am worthy of your favour."

Zephyr stroked her bottom lip, before making a flippant gesture, "No, no… you dance to see if you are _worthy_. You are not worthy because you seek to dance. Perhaps you do not know how it works in Calimport, pale-skin, 'mm?"

Again ignoring her taunt, he asked, "Are you afraid of losing, my lady?"

There was a collective ripple of gasps at that. Zephyra actually narrowed her eyes. She spoke, this time with a hint of dangerous bite. "I _never_ lose, boy. I have fought _all_ who seek to dominate me, and I will fight you."

He nodded, "If you wish to fight, we can fight after we have danced."

"Dancing _is_ fighting. Are you naïve enough to believe otherwise, 'mm?"

"I have not studied the theories of dancing or fighting, my lady."

"Oh? Then what _have_ you studied?"

"That is not for you to know."

Again, she blinked as if unprepared for such a response. She then smirked, "I shall enjoy beating you. You are far too arrogant for a person who has not studied anything of value."

Gorion smiled innocently, "And you are far too arrogant for such a beautiful lady."

Her eyes narrowed, "Clever words will not break my will."

"I do not seek to break your will, or dominate. I just wish to dance with you."

"Very well. Then see if you can keep up, pale-skin."

She clicked her fingers in one languid, graceful gesture. Instantly the Calishite instruments started playing a wild dancing tune. Gorion watched as Zephyra erupted into movement. Every part of her body moved in time with the music. Even to the single curl of her little finger on a certain quivering crescendo of the music, she moved as if she were a spirit summoned by the sound of song itself. Gorion stood, entranced, by her flowing locks and rippling translucent silk.

Twirling once, she called out, "Do you northerners dance with your tongue, 'mm? Is that why you stand with your mouth open?"

Gorion sighed. Closing his eyes, he remained still for a little longer, swaying in time with the music. _Be free, Gorion. Be free._ Instantly, he was back at the campfire. The music of the gypsy folk flowed in his veins, even after all those years. He could not remember much, just the gentle swaying interspersed with fierce thrashing that made up the dances of his folk. Knowing he had to start soon, Gorion launched himself into movement.

There were several murmurs as he moved. His long brown hair, reaching to just above his shoulders, tossed from side to side as he tried to move with as much skill as he remembered he had done so many years ago. He had danced since, with Eleeanna, but that was different. That was a courtly dance in northern courts where everything was formal and everything was based on certain steps to the left and then the right. This was _wild_, this was passion. This was, apt for Calimshan, _heat_.

The music quickened pace and now Gorion opened his eyes. He saw Zephyra whirling about this way and that, her silken gown flowing behind her like a trail of light about a candle. Everything about her called to him. Her gaze, defiant, fixed him with a determined glare. _I will not be controlled_, she seemed to say.

How long they danced together, Gorion did not know. All he noticed was that eventually they danced less _against_ each other, and more with each other. Finally, they were dancing so that their forms touched. Through their thin silken clothing Gorion could feel her warm skin damp with the toil of dancing. Her eyes met his. Slowly, gently, silently he leaned his head towards hers and kissed her.

The guests around them erupted into cheers. When Gorion drew back from the kiss however, Zephyra's eyes shone with tears. "You have taken me then, northerner. Am I to be girt with chains in your household to grace it for honoured guests? Shall I dance like a tame bird sings, for your pleasure?"

Gorion snorted, "Don't be ridiculous. It was just a dance; just a kiss."

The dancer frowned, then. Her hand found his cheek. "It was not _just_ a dance and certainly was not _just_ a kiss. You intrigue me, northerner. I believe I shall come to your household whether you wish it or not. And the gods help any other of your mistresses, because I do not play second fiddle for any man or woman."

* * *

Gorion and Zephyra epitomised all that Harpers should stand for. Free in body, soul and mind, they travelled together for four years. Each day they spent together, they spent in love and freedom. They aided all they could. Many corrupt merchants in Calimport found that their slave pens were empty in the morning when they woke. Inevitably, a harp was scrawled in the sand where humans had once lived like animals.

After a time, they left Calimshan, working together as partners in many other adventures. Both were exiled from the city of Baldur's Gate for a time. Although they rescued a ship from pirates, they ended up sailing it single-handedly into the dockyards causing only a little bit of damage but angering the harbourmaster beyond any hope of redemption.

Their time together was characterised by those small rebellions. They tackled great villains together yet also worked to alleviate small injustices. A wife being beaten by her husband would find the husband convicted of a crime that sometimes he did not commit, to ensure her continued safety. They were unorthodox methods perhaps, but methods of which both of them approved. Methods which brought happiness, freedom and Balance to many places they passed through.

Alas, like much in Gorion's life, thought the happiness burned bright…

It also burned short.


	8. Chapter Seven: Candlekeep

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Gorion woke, confused and alone. The room he lay in was dark and hot. All about him was a mass of sweat-sodden blankets and sheets. It was all he could do to lift his head and look around, as if every ounce of strength had been stripped from him in an instant. There were no sounds outside the chamber door and the window had been boarded up.

"Where am I?" he murmured to himself, aware that his voice was slurred and fragile. His mind, always his greatest asset, was desperately working to remember, but it was as if a grey haze had spread over his remembrance. All he could recall, was travelling into Athkatla with his Zephyra.

_Athkatla._

With the name of the city, Gorion experienced a shudder of fear and sickness. It surprised him, for though he disliked Amn, no city save perhaps Zhentil Keep inspired such feelings. He frowned, shaking his head, perplexed. What was so troubling about Athkatla? What had happened to him? And then the question that made him sit up, even though his muscles shrieked in protest: _where is Zephyra?_

Shaking, for he had started to feel cold despite the heat of the room, Gorion shifted in his bed, and with a grunt of effort forced himself to stand. His head swam with dizziness and for a moment he felt as if he would topple to the ground. But something forced him forward, a desperate and intense need to know where he was. Where Zephyra was.

He made it halfway to the door, before he collapsed with exhaustion.

* * *

When he woke again, someone was sitting beside the bed. His vision hazy, the figure resembled little more than a robed shadow. After several long minutes, his eyes cleared and he recognised priestly vestments and a kindly man's face. Bright blue eyes were studying him with compassion and warmth, but Gorion, long experienced at reading people, caught a note of wariness in them. Rasping, for his throat was dry indeed, he asked, "Where am I?"

The robed priest sighed and moved cool fingers to touch Gorion's forehead. Something was chanted and the wizard felt healing magic flow through him, warming him, strengthening him. The voice then spoke, echoing with sadness, "You are a guest in the monastery of Candlekeep, Gorion Mallavar."

Candlekeep - the great library. A legend amongst scholars, such a refuge had called to Gorion for years, the desire for knowledge battling with the need for adventure. Always, the need for adventure and wanderlust had won – after all, there were people to be protected, battles to be fought that could not be fought in the grip of scrolls. But why had he come to Candlekeep, therefore?

As if sensing the question, the priest looked away and spoke gently, "You caught the plague, my child. We have battled a long time for your life, Gorion. A week ago, I thought we would not succeed with driving it out, for it was a vile disease, bred from dark necromancy we have not seen for years. But drive it out we did and you now are safe."

Plague. The word lanced through his lack of memory in an instant. Instantly, images from his recent past raced through him. Corpses rotting in the streets of Athkatla with the sickly scent of sugar-sweet treats; the Council of Six barricaded in their palaces; the legionnaires terrified of the slightest cough; starvation throughout Amn; the dead littering the roads… A final image made him sit up, as he saw one last image. His beloved Zephyra, coughing within sight of Candlekeep's walls, gasping for breath and telling him she loved him.

"Zephyra?" he asked, fearfully.

"I am sorry. She was too far gone for our healing to work. Her soul fled to the Fugue hours after we brought you into the monastery. We tried, young man, we tried. At the very least, we soothed her pain and woes. She whispered your name before she died, if that is any comfort."

Gorion lay back in his bed, stunned. Almost immediately, he felt himself sinking into the ignorance of sleep. Flee from the pain, he told himself. Flee into sleep, where you do not have to feel the loss. And those words were echoed by the stranger priest beside him, "Sleep, Gorion. Sleep, and let the Weavemother comfort your dreams."

* * *

_They stood together at the helm of a galley, the sails catching the full wind as they plied through the Sea of Swords towards the city of Waterdeep. Her beautiful hair caught in the wind and spray, her eyes were bright and alive. Alone, the two of them had masqueraded as slaves, before slaying the pirates who had taken the ship. And now twenty slaves were rushing about them, steering the ship towards the city and their freedom. Gorion grinned at her and slipped his arm round her waist, "Shall we bait them a little, my love?"_

_Zephyra flashed him a dazzling grin, "I had intended to, pale-skin."_

_When the ferry of the harbourmaster had drawn near to their ship, demanding that they slow down, declare their goods and passengers, Gorion had winked outrageously at him. Then, with loud whoops of delight at their small rebellion, Zephyra and he brought the ship full speed into the harbour, stopping at the last minute._

_By the time the City Watch had arrived, they were long gone._

_Other memories, turned into dreams, flickered madly through his mind. How they had discredited a brutal lord in Daggerford and staged a coup where his company was left to his terrorised wife. He laughed again as they travelled for a time with a gypsy camp, taking pleasure in their own company. He watched with wonder again as he saw her weaving a dance of death with her blades._

_Four years together, they had had. Four years of memories now, Gorion relived in his sleep. And as they drew to a close, he became aware of himself again. Of what he had lost. In the dream, even as Zephyra smiled, he wept._

* * *

He woke, tears dampening his cheeks.

The room was now bright, the windows opened wide to let in the brilliant sun. His strength restored, he stood and walked to those windows, gazing out at the monastery. It was noon, and the small, sleepy fortress was at its busy time. The few travellers and guests were either lunching at the inn he could see whose polished sign _Winthrop's_ spoke of fine service, or wandering quietly through the well-tended circular path that led around the library. There were a few houses, where no doubt monks or servants lived. Breathing in the scent of summer, Gorion recognised something within himself that loved this place. He had not yet seen the untold numbers of books nor glimpsed even the tiniest portion of ancient lore. But his soul was telling him this place was home.

A home, alas, without his Zephyra.

Bowing his head, he breathed out heavily, wishing within himself that he could expel his maelstrom of feelings with it. But such a coward's way out would have angered Zephyra. "Feelings are feelings, pale-skin," she had once told him as they lay side by side watching the sunset. "How do we take pleasure and joy, without the sadness and pain? We of the sands are taught always to embrace every feeling, for it is in feeling that we live, that we are more than the base scorpion of the Calim Desert."

"Oh, Zephyra," he whispered, and buried his face in his hands. "My Zephyra."

* * *

With the death of Zephyra, Gorion felt much of his joy vanish. For a long time, he remained within the monastery, becoming part of the small community there. Though he found no passion within its dry stone walls, he found companionship, friendship and fraternity. Within the scrolls, he found knowledge that most would die for. And within one collection, the prophecies of Alaundo, he found a new purpose. 


	9. Chapter Eight: Tethyr

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

_1347 DR_

Tethyr's dusty, wild hills brought back uncomfortable memories for Gorion. He had travelled through the land many times with Zephyra and every sight of sand and vineyards brought back the pain. It had been two years, since his beloved had died. Two years, in which Gorion had essentially shut himself off within the monastery, losing himself amongst the books and histories. Yet a Harper was he, and someone of his skill was needed.

_Trouble in Tethyr_, the message had declared, y_ou must stop it. _Easier said than done of course, Gorion thought as he nudged his horse along the sandy road. He had been travelling within the border of Tethyr for a week now, had spoken with many Harpers all of whom were terrified. Their eyes darted to the wild hills of the hot country and they whispered the rumours that gripped the country.

"They say the Maid of Misfortune has been spotted," one Harper said, as he provided Gorion with a fresh horse one night. "And not only that my friend, but… there have been murders. The King is content with his balls and galas, but the country? There is so much discontent – there are groups in towns and villages talking about _revolution_. If we were behind it, I would not worry. But a priest of Helm near Darromar told me the peasants are being stirred up by other, darker voices with the pretext of freedom at its fore."

The news from the Harper agents troubled Gorion greatly. There had been revolutions before. Indeed, many Harpers felt it their duty to break slaves free and end the bonds of serfdom. Wherever a Harper saw oppression and unfair control, it was their task to break it. But for those of dark heart to manipulate the people of a nation into war? It was a thought to instil fear into any good man or woman.

Yet riding the length and breadth of Tethyr, desperately trying to find leads – which were as lacking as snow in the midday desert – Gorion saw a great many injustices. Lords beating their workers and servants for the slightest recalcitrance; arrogant barons executing anyone who complained about their lot; high taxes to pay for personal armies and extravagant celebrations and all of it practiced by a bumbling King at the same time.

Tethyr was like a rotten grape on the vine, and it surprised Gorion that it had taken so long for the Harpers to take notice. Across the borders he knew, agents from Harper circles throughout Faerun were now entering Tethyr. Their orders were the same as his. _Trouble in Tethyr, it must be stopped._ But every Harper he encountered was at a loss? How can you stop an angry populace that was angry for a just cause? How can you morally force people to remain in shackles merely because they were being directed by questionable forces?

There were small skirmishes, of course. The occasional orc or gnoll from the mountains tried to waylay Gorion as he made his way across Tethyr, north to south and east to west and back again. Sometimes he lifted his voice to urge a gathered rabble to calm; sometimes he brought a corrupt and dangerous lord to justice himself – discreetly – to prevent the chaos of an uprising. His comrades were doing the same, an invisible network of Harpers bringing silent justice and desperately trying to instil calm at the same time. Yet there were many towns, many barons and Gorion knew that if but one uprising occurred, it would be the tinder strike amongst dry grass. All of Tethyr would erupt into the searing flame of revolution. Thousands would die and whatever forces directed the peasants would profit greatly.

* * *

It was during late Eleint that Gorion arrived at one keep near Tethir Forest – or the Wealdath as the elves called it – to visit a Baron Baeltha. The land of the baron was well-tilled, the homes of his servants richer than most he had seen in the country. Most of the faces in the farms and settlements he passed lacked the anger he had seen elsewhere. It showed that the lord of this land at least cared about his people, which brought him some hope. Part of Gorion believed that if he could keep working alongside the Harper agents elsewhere, to warn those good lords and remove the cruel ones, chaos could be averted.

The keep was a simple one. There were no outer walls, just a cluster of homes around a strong-walled keep with few windows. Flowers in baskets could be seen hanging from every roof, the heraldic image of Baeltha – the purple shield – was resplendent, fluttering in the breeze proudly. Here, so close to the mysterious shadows of the forest, Gorion should have felt tense. But compared to the tension that filled Tethyr now, this place was a haven; an oasis in the desert.

Despite the fact he appeared more like a vagabond, Gorion stepped forward proudly towards the heavy oaken doors of the keep. A guard, wearing chain mail and a sword polished for trouble, looked firmly at him – but not without friendliness. "Good stranger, I am afraid the day of petition is over, I am sorry if you wanted to see the baron, but he is truly quite busy."

Gorion sighed. He had expected this. A guard was trained to take into account the garb of anyone seeking entrance anywhere. Some ragged, bearded, dusty traveller in torn robes did not instil respect. "Goodman, I must see the baron. I have been travelling for weeks, nearly months, through the land. It concerns the good of Tethyr itself."

The guard frowned, but reluctantly turned from Gorion, opened the door and with a muttered, "Wait there," went running for a superior. With a rueful smile, Gorion folded his arms around his staff and waited. He did not have too long a wait, for within ten minutes, a relaxed, smiling man stepped out. The only sign of his rank was a golden signet ring with an engraved shield. His face was lined with the worry of command, but his eyes were friendly.

The baron offered his hand to Gorion, "Stranger, you apparently bring word of importance. I extend to you the hospitality of my keep. Come, I will have this word of importance from you, then you may retire and perhaps clean yourself a little!" He chuckled warmly.

With a nod, Gorion followed behind the baron.

* * *

The smile had long since gone.

"I cannot believe it… I had heard rumours of discontent, but nothing like on the scale you were talking of. Actually, the barons are more worried about…" He frowned and leaned in, "About treachery within the royal family against the King. A simple – as we saw it – plot for the throne. But this, turning the peasants against the rulers is… unprecedented. Gorion, I thank you for bringing this to my attention. As it is, I am not unduly worried about my own subjects revolting against me. I've known many of them for their whole lives. I attend their weddings, christenings and deaths. I may have to administer tough justice at times, but I am not unfair."

At this, Gorion nodded, "Your lands certainly seem calmer than most. But please, be wary. If a spark comes, it could ignite all the folk in Tethyr against even their loved lords."

With a chuckle, Jeremy Baeltha shrugged, "As I said, I know my people, good sir. But enough of such grim talk. We can see to what must be done tomorrow. Tonight, you will join me for a meal with my daughter? She had long expressed a wish to meet a wizard and I do believe with a few tweaks to your robes you might be suitable." His eyes gleamed with humour.

Gorion could not help but smile.

* * *

Night soon fell.

Outside the keep, amongst the villages of Baeltha land, a man bearing the symbol of Misfortune raised his voice to the people. He spoke of injustices against their young, of deaths through Tethyr caused by their king. The peasants greeted him at first with derision, "Baron Baeltha's looked after us for years, you fool!" "Get back to your temple, Beshaban!" "Stow your lies, priest!"

But there was captivity to his words, a lulling sense that what he spoke was true. First one peasant, then another, began to realise that Baeltha lived in a great keep whilst they lived in but a small home. Slowly, like a trickle in a drying stream, the peasants began to listen more to the priest. And as they listened, they felt anger rising within them. Anger against the king; against their troubles; against poverty. The priest was clever, for he mentioned Baeltha's name very few times. By the time he had started linking Baeltha to their problems, the crowd of peasants as already his.

* * *

"This is Jaheira, Gorion. My daughter."

The baron, his arm around his daughter, gestured to her with his free hand. His eyes were proud and his smile true. Gorion, considering the young girl of about seventeen was not surprised. She was truly a beauty, with pale skin, russet hair and almond eyes that held a fierce strength. Her ears were pointed, a sign of clear elven ancestry. With the grace of one noble born, she curtsied. "Master Gorion, my father tells me you are a wizard." With a faintly contemptuous smirk, she asked, "Perhaps you could show some of your vaunted power to me?"

Gorion chuckled. He had seen many girls like her. She was confident, but with a lot of shyness that she masked with a cutting fierceness. With a tap of his lips, Gorion touched Jaheira's green dress of cotton and whispered a spell. There was a flicker of white light and the girl's dress turned into the finest white silk. "May you know the wonders of the Weave, child," he spoke solemnly and then gave her a roguish wink.

Jeremy Baeltha raised his brows in surprised, "Skilled mage indeed. I had thought you would entertain us with those phantasmagorical lights or dancing illusions, but not such a power."

He shrugged, "I would have transformed her to a squirrel, but I have no spell to turn her back. Your dear daughter would have had to wait till tomorrow morning to think about anything but almonds." Now, although he knew it was childish, Gorion gave her a smirk that echoed her own. "Is that enough of a demonstration of magic's power, child?"

Her eyes smouldered angrily but she nodded, "Yes, Master Gorion."

They had settled down and were eating, when they heard the sounds outside the keep. Jeremy frowned, standing to gaze out of the window. His face paled. "Gorion… there's… there's…"

Gorion however, could already hear. He heard almost a hundred voices crying out in anger. Moving quickly to stand beside Jeremy, he saw a crowd of peasants gathering outside. In the distant, across the well-tilled fields of Baeltha land, more and more peasants were marching. Jaheira whispered, her voice quiet with fear but steady, "What are they doing, father?"

"Justice!" one voice cried out above the rest. It was a privileged voice; it held a different quality to the rest. In an instant however, the strange voice was lost as more and more peasant voices drowned it out with their own cries for "Justice!"

Jeremy shook his head and considered Gorion, "You said it would not happen for a short time – you said your allies were doing everything to keep things calm!" For the first time since they had met, he looked angry and scared. Bad combinations in a man, but Gorion could not blame him for either emotion. The question was a valid one. If there was a mob assembled here, the gods only knew what the rest of Tethyr was like. It meant the Harpers had failed utterly. Perhaps one of their greatest failures, Gorion thought momentarily.

"Jeremy, lord Baeltha, I truly thought… this… this is not what I expected to happen today. It should _not_ have happened today, nor in a week, nor in a month. We were keeping the riots away, it was only in winter we feared they would… they would break free from our exhortations."

The baron bowed his head, "Gods… there are so many."

Below, in the bowels of the keep, the mob was already pounding on the heavy oaken doors. Jeremy turned to Gorion. "What will they do with me, according to your experience?"

Gorion contemplated – for the barest moment – lying. But he could not. With a heavy sigh he murmured, "They will hang you, if you are lucky. If not, you will be beaten to death by the mob."

Jaheira gasped. It was a terrified sound that was far removed from the strength she had shown earlier. "We must flee, father!"

The baron remained silent, chewing his bottom lip in deep thought. He turned to Gorion, "I will remain here. It is my duty. My family have guarded this land for a hundred years and I will not desert my post. I will answer what charges my people have with a firm voice and steadfast conviction. They have known me, they will see reason. I am confident of that."

Only the slightest crack in the baron's voice belied his words. That and what he asked next. "Gorion, you can still flee. Take Jaheira with you. I have no wish for her to experience the mob. She will be welcomed in by the elves, perhaps by her own mother. But you must go now. Behind the tapestry there, is a secret staircase that leads down below the castle, to two tunnels. Follow the one to the east. It will bring you out a mile away, on the very outskirts of the forest. Hurry, though, I beg you."

Jaheira narrowed her eyes, and the terror fled in an instant. "I am _not_ going to leave you behind, father. Why do you not leave with us? We can return when this _madness_ is over."

A simple shake of the head, "No, my beloved daughter. Such an easy escape is one my cruel peers would take. I am not cruel, nor do I forget my duty. And when you grow up, perhaps without me, remember your duty. You may not rule here, but you will remain a Baeltha by blood. You have a duty to all who are weaker, to all who are at risk of oppression and unfair rule."

The daughter of the baron shook her head, "I am _not_ going to leave you. I will fight, if I need to! I promise that, father! If they try and hurt you, they will pay." She plucked a carving knife from the table. The image would almost have been comical had it not been for the tears Gorion saw in her eyes. She held the knife, small and silver, like a warrior would hold a blade.

Baeltha regarded Gorion again, "Look after her, sir. I know you intended to prevent this by your visit, but perhaps some good will come from my daughter surviving where she would not have had you not come. Guard her well, master Gorion. Let that be my last request, to you."

Jaheira now fixed him with a glare, "Master Gorion, I refuse to come with you. I refuse! You cannot make me!"

With another heavy sigh, Gorion chanted a single spell. Instantly, Jaheira's eyes glazed over and she fell silent. He nodded his head once to the baron and then stepped behind the tapestry. Charmed, Jaheira followed him, helpless to resist his silent command. Gorion knew, as he led her along the shadows of the escape tunnel, that she would never forgive him.

By the time the baron had started screaming for mercy above, Gorion knew that he would never forgive _himself_. For her had taken a daughter against her will from her father at the moment of his death. He tried to tell himself it was for the best, that she would now live a life of her own. He and the charmed Jaheira stepped out of the tunnel, at dawn. The keep was still burning, its blackened ruin a smouldering scar on the land. The forest beckoned to him and with a long sigh at what duty made him do, Gorion stepped into the darkness of mysterious trees.

* * *

And all across Tethyr, the Harpers found themselves outmanoeuvred. Not only did they fail to end the chaos, but they found the blame for the troubles placed firmly on their shoulders. Even to this day, to wear the silver pin within Tethyr is to risk death. For all that was done by unseen dark hands during the Ten Black Days of Eleint, was seen as the invisible weaving of plots, by the Harpers. Many children found themselves orphaned that day, many remembered fond homes that are now little more than rain-washed rubble in the wilderness of ancient Tethyr. 


	10. Chapter Nine: Pirates

**CHAPTER NINE**

The ship's hold was lit by two lanterns that shook from side to side from the ceiling. Imoen sat, gazing at the sets of maps and sea charts lying on the table. Open on her lap was the gold-gilt spellbook. Most of the pages were filled with interesting but harmless cantrips; a few were scattered journal entries. Others, however, were a complex series of equations designed to hide co-ordinates for a sea voyage. Not just any wizard would have been able to solve these equations however. They truly were a work of art. Upon drawing near to solving any one equation, an attack of any possible origin could strike the wizard holding the spellbook.

It had taken Imoen and Gorion two weeks to work their way through the magical incantations equations. Two weeks of hard, fearful labour. Yet finally, the spellbook had yielded its secrets, a route to the place where the sword reputedly lay. And now she and Gorion sat in the ship's hold, awaiting the contacts who would be aiding them in their endeavour.

The first to enter strode from the deck of the ship with a regal air. The first thing that struck Imoen about the figure was the sheer amount of armour worn: heavy shoulder-guards, greaves, breastplates, and gauntlets, all of burnished silver. From rounded shape of the armour, it was obvious the figure was a woman. Sheathed at her waist was a splendid white-handled mace. About her neck was a symbol unknown to Imoen, that of a golden chalice.

Stopping before the table, the woman moved her gauntleted hands to remove her white-plumed helm. Her face was formed from hard lines, with glittering blue eyes. There was nothing pretty or attractive about her. She spoke with a firm tone, one echoing with privilege and nobility. "I am Arianna, priestess of the Divine Right."

Beside her, Gorion snorted, "Shouldn't you be in a gala somewhere, with the flighty sons of rich lords? Your armour certainly looks pretty, but we are about a serious quest, young lady."

Imoen glanced sidelong at her foster-father. It was not like him to be so lacking in diplomacy. But there was a hard cast to his face, as if he disliked the woman's faith, her very morality. Glancing back at the woman – Arianna – Imoen waited for her to respond.

When she did so, after a long time of studying the old wizard, she spoke in clipped tones. "The Divine Right, Siamorphe, has many different followers. I do not follow, and refuse to do so, the self-satisfied majority of my faith. She has chosen me, old man, for a different purpose. She herself appeared to me in my dreams last night. Just as Siamorphe blessed the new Queen of Tethyr, so too does she wish to bless a new King of Amn. And you two are proposing to find the lost sword that will bring such a vision into actuality."

Gorion frowned, but this time not with dislike, more out of a perplexed study. "I see. Well, if I might take my earlier words back, I shall do so. My experiences of your faith have not been pleasant – too many of you once danced whilst Tethyr burned with revolution. But a small number of you hold to the truth of your Lady. For that, I respect you. A question before we accept you into our company, however. How did you hear about our plans? I have made every effort to keep the information of our efforts strictly secret."

The woman nodded vaguely, "A reasonable question. After the dream, I confronted Duke Eltan with my desire to see him prevail upon the Council of Six to name a just King. He suggested a more subtle approach, naming you and this demon spawn." She steadfastly refused to look at Imoen.

Once, such a remark might have offended her, but Imoen merely chuckled to herself. A flash of insight took her and she offered an insolent wink to the priestess, "Honey, next time don't try to bluff Eltan. If you want to use false stupidity as a stalking horse to get information, don't tell people in the same sentence you are favoured of Siamorphe – who no doubt dislikes stupidity in her followers."

The old wizard chuckled, "Well, Arianna, I believe that is a fair rejoinder to your unjustified comment about my daughter's blood. I shall have no qualms about accepting you to our company. Some rules first, however. You will not make any remark about Imoen's blood." He grinned at her. "Furthermore, you will not try to hide your intelligence from us, as you obviously tried to do from Eltan. What priestess of Siamorphe with any knowledge of nobility would have proposed such a stupid suggestion, hmm? Are you content with those terms, Arianna of Siamorphe?"

Curtly, the priestess nodded. "I am." No mention, Imoen noted to herself, of the issues Gorion and Imoen had raised. A calm acceptance and therefore a side-stepping of the issue. This priestess was canny. She would have to be, to progress so far in a clergy obsessed with political power.

Imoen gestured for her to sit. She resumed her quiet wait, Gorion exchanging strained pleasantries with the decidedly abrupt priestess. Once, it would have been her making the forced conversation. She had in former days, prided herself on her charm. But that charm, like her moniker of Eternal Child, had faded with the years of pain. Let the priestess be unfriendly. It was only important that she aid them in their quest.

The next two people arrived together. One, a pock-marked man in his early thirties wore a stinking, manure-stained cloak around stained leather armour. He was unshaven and bits of bird faeces stained his greasy black hair. Beside him walked a young woman wearing bright, sky-blue leather armour and a white cloak. Her hair was blonde and although she was fairly average in appearance, her choice of garb made her appear striking.

Gorion did not speak, waiting for the two to introduce themselves. The woman bowed with grace. "I am Elenora, good sir, young madam. This is my brother, Daniel. A shame, but he cannot speak. Once, he was set upon by a pack of winter wolves with a craving for blood. They tore his tongue out, before he managed to drive them away with his swords. But he is an excellent tracker, who has lived most of his life in harsh circumstances and-"

"Without a bath," Arianna put in pointedly. "Does the lack of a tongue equate to the lack of ability to _bathe_?"

Elenora gave a hard look to the priestess and then shrugged. "When you live in the wilderness, where most people try to kill you, where without a tongue you cannot talk to any passer-by, I am sure the last thing you think of is when you next sit in a massage parlour in the finest noble mansions, before bathing with delicate scented oils, _miss_. Now I'm going to give you this one warning, because I like what you've done with your hair," the sarcasm was not lost on anyone in the room, for Arianna's hair was cut short, almost like that of a young boy's. "But if you insult my brother again I will see to it that you lose your tongue immediately. Wearing armour that could feed a thousand people quite well for a week does never give you the right to treat him like you just did. So, he offended your nose? So what? If I'm feeling really pissed, _miss_, I'll chop that off for you too."

Imoen murmured, "Well, you have spirit, Elenora. I do believe we can use someone of your passion. You are both warriors, I take it?"

Daniel nodded, but after a last glare at the priestess of Siamorphe, Elenora said to Imoen, "I'm also skilled in the… erm… more roguish arts. I can pick most locks, can watch out for traps and sneak with the above average." She grinned at that. "Not quite with the best, you understand. Now, the bearded fellow with the black staff said something about imperative location of a fabled artefact to restore order and bring about the destruction of great evil before the Sword Coast is plunged into a century of bloodshed and death. So I'm in, mainly because it gives me something to do until the gods above come up with something more original. Like just a routine bank job. There's plenty of banks in Amn, you know, just waiting for people to spring a fortune out. But alas no, the world is interested in averting destruction, so averting destruction is what me must do, eh? Daniel?"

In the nod, Imoen thought she saw something like long-suffering despair. Smiling once, she said to Gorion, "I like her. I think she should come."

Gorion smiled at the rogue and ranger, "In you both are then."

* * *

When it came down to it, they were seven: Gorion, herself, Arianna, Daniel and Elenora and two others. One was a paladin of Mystra, fairly overweight with grey in his hair, but he had known Gorion from years ago so Marius was accepted in without any complaint – except for the pointed remark about old-man's paunch from Arianna. The final member of their company was a face from the past, for Imoen. He was the archer, Kivan. She and Reina had once travelled with some years ago. Despite the dour, seriousness of his heart, Imoen had approved him almost at once. She knew he was courageous, loyal and skilled and the fact that the Harpers had trusted him with information of their proposed voyage also spoke volumes.

They put to sea the next day, the Harper sailors – masked and without names, as was necessary – made good time, following the directions Imoen gave them each day. Imoen found the hold becoming swiftly oppressive however, despite the speed with which they cut through the Sea of Swords. Arianna's constant remarks of culture, upbringing and nobility were irritating. Knowing she could not insult Imoen's blood, the priestess was finding many round-about ways of hinting at her dislike for Bhaalspawn. And why should she not? Only five Bhaalspawn remained alive now, in the world: The Four, who were ravaging part of it and herself, an archmage who was sailing in a ship with five strangers and a resurrected dead father.

Imoen knew she had two weeks of travel on the ship. They had to land on the coast of Chult, south of Calimshan. Amongst the jungles and strange lands where great dinosaurs roamed, the lost sword awaited them. The thought of glimpsing such a wonderful place excited her, but the thought of spending that time with the bickering and snide remarks between Arianna and Elenora was horrendous. Even the camaraderie between Marius and Gorion had begun to irritate her. She did not begrudge Gorion a friend, far from it. He had lost so much, so to have a comrade who was a friend was a great gift. But listening to the fifth recital of how Gorion and he had once driven fifty bandits away from two beautiful merchant ladies brought back memories of her travels with Reina and the others who were now lost to her.

As she stood on deck, six days into the voyage, her cloak and robes billowing in the sea wind, she found her thoughts becoming unwelcome and bitter. The loss was always within her. Oh, she might not despair each morning, might not find it difficult even to wake up. But that just meant the symptoms had lessened. The grief was the same. Even with Gorion back, she was lonely.

"You have suffered, my lady."

The soft-spoken words to her left, where moments before there had been empty space, made her jump. Kivan, who walked even on the swaying deck with silent feet, was watching her with intent brown eyes. The fact he called her 'lady' for some reason made her feel worse.

"Please, call me Imoen, like you used to? I know you refused to call me Immy, but Imoen is a nicer name than lady."

Kivan nodded, "Of course, Imoen." He paused, gripping the rail with his flawless elven hands. "You always pestered me as to why I refused to call you Immy. A few times you got annoyed. But an elf learns to read humans. You are as open as a book, sometimes, Imoen. And I saw that part of you hated being called Immy. Even then, young one, there was pain inside you. Hidden of course, for you hated to be a bother to anyone – such responsibility too, lay on your shoulders. You loved Reina – _love_ Reina – and you wanted to protect her."

Imoen frowned. She found his words echoed inside – her own thoughts had said the same time and again – but she disliked such ideas. It only made her feel as if her problems were made worse. And why was Kivan taking this moment to talk to her, with words only she had ever spoken?

He did not smile – Kivan never smiled – but he dipped his head fractionally. "You wonder why I tell you this? Why I am talking of your emotions?" He glanced at the sea. "Because they are my own, Imoen. They are the thoughts of every one who struggles with grief. You ask yourself constant questions, of what you had before. You re-examine everything you ever said. Did you say enough, you wonder? Did they know before they died, that you loved them? Did you ever tell them how much you cared? Did Reina know the pain inside you?"

His hands clenched on the rail, in his own pain. "She did, Imoen. I remember one night, before you left to travel south, she told me she knew of your pain. That she knew there was part of you she could not reach. Of course, she did not know you were a Bhaalspawn – how could she? But she knew, and was at a loss of how to help. So she went along with the Eternal Child, laughing, joking, teasing…"

Imoen whispered, "Which is what I wanted…"

The elven ranger nodded, "It is, but at the same time it isn't. Oh, you were always joyful and teasing. But no-one can remain like that all the time. And you felt you had to. Reina felt sad about that, but she accepted it as your choice."

His words seemed to hover on the edge of making sense. But it seemed to her he had offered two meanings, a contradiction and a meaningless explanation. She would think on his words for a long time, she knew, and it might never make any sense. What he had said however, did help in some way. Reina had known her pain and had worried about it. That meant a lot. And that meant Reina knew Imoen had cared… because why else would Imoen keep her worries bottled up?

She sighed, "I wish she was here."

Kivan nodded, but suddenly his attention flicked away from her. His eyes sharpened and he slung his bow from his back at the same time, shouting, "Pirates! Two ships off the starboard bow!"

The ship exploded into a flurry of action. Although Imoen could not see any ships, she knew better than to dispute elven eyes. From the hold, Gorion stepped first, leaning on his staff heavily. From the heavy circles around his eyes, he had been sleeping. Arianna next, gripping her mace, pushing her helm over her head. Then Elenora, Marius and Daniel. The filthy ranger held his own bow as well, moving to stand next to Kivan.

In the distance, Imoen saw two shapes. Their sails were the most obvious thing, at this distance. But they were moving fast indeed. Glancing about, she saw the masked sailors were readying themselves. Had they relied on human eyes, the ships would have been upon them before they were fully ready.

Into the tense silence, Kivan snarled, a rage rare in most elves, but common in him. "They fly the banner of Black Alaric, the pillaging bastard. Oh, he won't be here, the scum. He'll be lolling in the spoils from Murann – but by Corellon, I'll take his bastard followers out in battle."

Gorion stepped forward now to the rail. The ships were closer now; close enough for Imoen to see the distant signs of two catapults being readied. These pirates were experienced. If they were allowed to unleash the stones, the ship would be too crippled to sail any further. She stepped beside Gorion and spoke calmly, "You take the left ship's catapult, I'll take the right."

The old wizard nodded and instantly, with a swift discipline that Imoen could barely begin to approach yet, started chanting. Moments after him, Imoen began her own spell. A lightning bolt erupted from Gorion's fingers, crackling towards the ship with the promise of death. Before it reached the ship however, a counterspell from a pirate mage made it explode in harmless fragments of static. Imoen's own spell, a coruscating fireball, had more effect. It exploded at the bow of the ship. She nodded as the flames started crackling at the catapult. She saw the silhouettes of pirates fleeing the flames.

One out of action.

Gorion had wasted no time. A fireball, like Imoen's, raced through the air. Again however, whatever mage the pirates had, counterspelled it with their own fireball. Annoyance flickered in the old wizard's eyes and he raised both of his hands now. His eyes were tight with concentration, "Disable the other ship, Imoen. I suggest a stinking cloud, right on the ship."

He had obviously had experience fighting with magic on the sea. Imoen turned to cast the spell, but was distracted momentarily when _two _fireballs leaped from Gorion's fingertips when only one incantation was used. The pirate mage managed to counterspell one – the other fireball slammed into the catapult with a fiery explosion of orange-and-red light.

Imoen's stinking cloud sprang into its misty green being on target. She heard the gagging, desperate coughing of the sailors. Those coughs ended very swiftly, and she watched with satisfaction as the ship drifted aimlessly out of the cloud. The sailors on the ship were either dead, or so ill they could not control the ship. Perhaps a cruel way to die - left to float till starvation without enough sailors to sail the ship - but a just one.

Gorion followed his own advice, and within seconds another green mist appeared around the second ship. Perhaps exhausted, the pirate mage was unable to counter this magic. Within moments, the second ship too, drifted aimlessly out of the malevolent green smoke.

"_Gods,_" Elenora whispered, her face appalled at the swift disposal of the pirate ships.

Imoen turned from the rail then, partly sickened at herself, wanting only to be alone in her bed. But Kivan spoke again, the first hint of fear in his voice. "More ships, off the starboard bow: six of them. Maybe more."

They could not fight that many. Gods, but they could not.

Gorion turned his alarmed eyes on the sailors, "Do whatever you have to do, but get us away from those ships!"

The masked sailors nodded. From the few eyes Imoen could see, there was fear. They knew as well as anyone – perhaps better, being sailors – what would happen when six pirate ships caught a lone merchant vessel: especially a lone merchant vessel that had destroyed two shiploads of their pillaging brethren.

Gorion started chanting, and a powerful gust of wind filled the sails above them. Their ship leaped into faster motion, the spray from the sea surrounding the ship in a white cloud as the vessel moved faster than it had any right to move. Five minutes later, the wind died. Kivan sighed, "I can still see them. We have gained time, but they are faster ships naturally. They will make up the distance soon."

Imoen bowed her head. If they died here, chased by pirates, everything Reina had died for would be wasted. But try as she might, to think of what to do, she could not. And with each passing moment, the pirate ships drew closer.

Like vultures hovering over a carcass.


	11. Chapter Ten: Boarding

**CHAPTER TEN**

Imoen watched the black storm clouds appear with a crackle, above the pursuing ships. Nervously, she felt the harsh winds pick up their pace. She found it difficult to stand on the swaying deck as the waves of the sea became more and more choppy. Whatever effect the storm was having on their ship was much worse for the pirates, however. Gorion's insistent incantations were driving the storm to harsher actions. Lightning, hail, rain, wind – it all lashed down against the pursuers. One mast was struck by lightning, tumbling in a burst of flame to crash into the sea. The other ships however, must have had their own wizards for the lightning bounced off magical shields with a cascade of broken light.

Five ships left and they had nearly caught them. For the past two days, they had tried every spell, every trick they could to lose the pirates. Magical mists, summoned sea monsters, storms, friendly winds, air elementals, everything. But what Gorion or Imoen could do, the five wizards with the pirates could do. Perhaps not quite as well - but well enough. Two ships moved wide to the sides of their ship, intending to cut them off. Two others began slowing, ready to move next to them for boarding. The other picked up speed, obviously intending to ram them.

Gorion turned to address the sailors and the companions. "They will swarm over us in moments. We can't repulse them, so we have to fight them as best as we can. That means you," he turned to Kivan, "and Daniel taking position in the crow's nest to shoot any wizards you can see and any archers."

He nodded as the two moved, ascending the rope ladder. "The rest of you, gather in a circle around the mast. Imoen and I will stand in the centre of the circle where we can use our magic to tip the balance. It is _imperative_ you fight hard. If anyone breaks through, we will be as defenceless as a child, as we cast."

There was a moment's stillness. The pirates' ships were very close now. They were battered, charred and damaged from the storms and magical onslaughts sent by Gorion and Imoen, but still they moved fast. Imoen saw pirates moving up into the masts and rigging, nocking arrows. The rest, with crude weapons and grappling hooks, were preparing to attack as soon as they came close enough.

"Get into positions! Now!" Gorion barked as he dragged Imoen to stand next to the mast with him. "Fireball, Imoen! Set as much fire against them as you can!"

The reason for his insistence became clear immediately. The ships that had spun wide to cut them off were now attaching ropes to the two ships off the port and starboard. They were providing a bridge for all the pirates from all the ships to move on. It meant five ship's worth of warriors would soon be submerging a small crew. A clever tactic, whose only weakness was the difficulty for the pirate ships to disengage if they needed to.

Imoen planted her feet a span apart and spun her fingers into gestures. Sulphur and guano clenched in her fists, she spat out the incantation and watched as one fireball, hissing through the air, launched towards one ship. Gorion had chosen the same ship and two fireballs followed hers. A flash of light and two of the fireballs were countered. One however, exploded on the deck of one ship. Pirates screamed as they were burned to ash in an instant. Fire started to flicker at a few places, but nothing dangerous.

Frowning, Gorion mumbled, "They must have warded these ships against fire before they tied them together. Very clever." He sighed then and murmured, "As many spells as you can cast, Imoen. And quickly."

He wasted no more time. From his fingers stole a small white-and-grey gathering of light. It touched one pirate and fragmented, wisps of energy touching perhaps ten more. With muffled groans, eleven pirates collapsed to the ground, dead. The response from the pirate wizards was lethal. Five lightning bolts from five different directions shrieked towards them. It was Gorion's smirk that told Imoen they were safe. He uttered one word – perhaps unleashing a contingency – and a silver-sparkling spell-shield moved to protect the small circle. There was a sound of potent magic – like a bell – and a flare of impossibly bright light. When her vision cleared, all five lightning bolts had vanished.

"Imoen! You're getting distracted!"

Gorion's words spurred her into action. When she had fought alongside Reina, she had used her spells instinctively in battles larger than this. Her year of fighting assassins had made her more used to smaller engagements. She straightened however and pointed. Her instincts were coming back to her. Two shouted words later, a blast of swirling blue lightning crackled towards the now-charging pirates. The lightning hit two, who died instantly in a sparkle of light. However, lethal as it had ever been, the chain lightning began to leap from pirate to pirate. Like some angry predator, tearing through defenceless animals.

She was prepared then, for the response from two wizards she saw. They began to chant, but rather than try to counter what they did, she unleashed a trigger she had almost forgotten about. A flurry of pink missiles hit one, till he collapsed. The other mage – apparently fairly weak – was distracted by the death of his ally and halted for but three seconds.

Those three seconds were long enough for Imoen. She first spat a few words and sent five more missiles against the mage. It distracted his second attempt at a spell, and by the time he had started another, a lightning bolt was ripping through the air. Knowing he was dead, Imoen turned to find other targets, ignoring his screams.

Above them, Kivan and Daniel were lending their arrows to the fight. Even as pirates were clambering across the ships to clear the distance, some fell, their skulls pierced by arrows. Although the pirates were trying to shoot the two rangers down from the mast, they continued to miss. With elven speed and accuracy, Kivan was shooting almost an arrow every five seconds. Daniel's shooting was slightly slower, but no less accurate for it.

Arianna clenched her fist and bellowed, "May the Divine Right protect us!"

A tower of flame burst into being, burning three pirates at once. When the flame faded, three figures of black, melted ashes were partially fused together. Then, the rest of the attacking pirates had reached the defensive circle. Imoen watched as Marius bellowed, "Mystra guide my blade!" and with a powerful swing of his longsword, split a foe's head. Elenora was spinning about with a short-sword and dirk, leaping out from the defensive circle. Her movements, wide, eccentric and fast would have been restricted in the circle. On the deck however, she was unstoppable.

Imoen shook herself back into awareness and now sent her lesser magics to aid the crew and her companions. Pirates who were about to break through found themselves assaulted by lightning, fire or acid. Any pirates clumped together and far enough away could find their lives stripped away by death magic. One brute of a pirate, wearing tattered trousers, and studded with many piercings, managed to move behind Elenora and was about to stab her when a great, white hand appeared around him, squeezing. Blood spurted as he died, crushed into pulp.

Imoen turned now, to aid her foster-father. Gorion was bleeding from some small wounds, inflicted by magic. Three pirate mages were sending their spells against him. With a growl of frustration, Imoen sent a gust of powerful wind tearing towards them. Two of them were bowled over. The other held onto the rope of the rigging. Gorion gave one small smile to Imoen before sending his magic to take advantage of the distraction. A cascade of rainbow colours shivered across the boat, wreaking devastation amongst the common pirates and mages alike. Some disintegrated, some burst into flames, others just died. Two of the mages, those lying on the ground, died instantly. The last mage took several minutes to die, batting flames ineffectually as he screamed.

Yet despite the victories, they were taking losses. Many of the crew were dead. In fact, as Gorion turned to cast a spell into the fray, Imoen saw three pirates force their way past the defensive circle. Their blades were out, ready to murder her foster-father. With a loud cry, Imoen tore her coat-like robe from her shoulders, revealing her glistening elven chain mail. Her legs tensed as she cleared the distance in an instant, drawing her magical short sword as she did so. A sound like a laugh escaped her lips as she brought the blade to intercept the attack against Gorion.

The pirates were surprised by the sudden transition from mage to warrior. Imoen found herself grinning as she kicked out at one of the pirates, batting aside his sabre before slashing the arteries in his neck. The other two diverted their attacks from Gorion to Imoen in an instant. The young mage smiled however, stepped back and a lightning bolt, screaming, claimed both their lives.

Gorion turned, his eyes surprised, but wasted no time in asking questions as he continued casting his magic. Imoen now leaped into the fray. When she had travelled with Reina, she had been valued mainly for her spells, but when the fighting grew tough she had drawn the short sword and lent her small skill as a rogue to the fray. And that was what she did now, combining magic and an above average skill with the blade into a lethal combination.

Oh, against the terrible foes they had all faced latterly – fire giants, vampires and drow – Imoen's skill was nothing, a babe against a god. But against crudely-trained pirates, she had skill enough with the blade for what she had to do. Imoen thrust her blade through the stomach of one pirate. He gurgled, before collapsing to the ground, his slimy worm-like entrails leaking across the deck of the ship. With so many dead by magic, blade and bow, the deck was slippery and dangerous.

Abruptly, the tide of battle shifted.

Faced by the spells of two archmages, the skilful blades of Harpers and sailors, the pirates knew they had chosen a prey that was out of their depth. With cries for mercy, the pirates began dropping their blades, surrendering. Imoen breathed out heavily, and looked about at the carnage.

Bodies were everywhere, the majority of them pirates, enough of them made up of the masked crew-members. Elenora was leaning against the mast, bleeding heavily. Arianna was crouching over her, chanting spells of healing. From the amount of blood around the white-and-blue clad rogue, the priestess had healed her in the nick of time. The rest of them were panting, covered in blood and sweat.

It had been a tough battle. And a battle too costly in the lives of the crew.

* * *

Imoen shook her head with a sigh.

They had freed the slaves from the pirate ships and the small merchant vessel had swiftly become overcrowded. Every ounce of food and water from the pirate vessels had been commandeered at the request of Gorion. Then, the pirates had been disarmed and escorted back to their ships, where they were told they could go free. It was perhaps a cruel thing to do, because without food they could not travel farm and without slaves they might not even be able to travel at all. But no-one voiced any disagreement. Justice was deserved, for the brutality the slaves had suffered and for the murder the pirates had done on the high seas.

Imoen found it difficult to look at the slaves. They were all, to a man, glad to be released and had pledged to her service with gratitude. Even when they had been told she was a Bhaalspawn, their oaths of fealty had not been rescinded. Many of them were from Murann, Amnians who saw in Imoen a chance to return to their land. She had not spoken about their quest, nor had any of the crew or the companions, so they were not influenced by that. They were influenced merely by their deep desire for freedom from slavery. Arianna had healed most of their ills, so most were healthy enough to aid with sailing the boat.

Gorion stood alongside her, as the merchant vessel resumed its trek. He murmured, "The first members of your army, Imoen." He watched her calmly. "To be a Bhaalspawn is more than just grappling with the blood of your father. It gives you status, it gives you power. Power that can be used for good as well as evil. These men and women, they have given _you _their fealty, because of you. I know you are uncomfortable with it, but you must get used to it. The Four have massive armies. The only way we can hope to beat them, is we gather our own army."

She wrinkled her nose, "I thought we were here to find a sword for an Amnian king. And it is he who will lead the army."

The old mage shook his head, "No, he is but one arrow to our bow. An Amnian army marching against the ogre magi and the Four is necessary. But so to is your own army. An army led by Imoen, aided by the Harpers, seeking freedom from war and oppression. That is what we must work for, as well as seeking this lost blade."

Imoen shook her head, "No, father. I refuse that. I am not a leader, and only accepted their vows of fealty so that when we find this king, they can aid him. Then, I shall offer my spells to that king so the Four can be defeated. I _will not_ lead my own army."

Gorion placed his hand on her shoulder, "I understand how you feel, my child. But do not rule it out. Destiny has a way of forcing our hand. You may in time be needed to lead, to march at the head of a thousand warriors or more. And if that is so, then we need you to do so with vigour, not with doubts and worries."

She sighed, and murmured a vague agreement.

In her heart however, she did not agree. For in the battle against the pirates, she had felt Bhaal's voice stir powerfully. And she was terrified as to what would happen should she ever lead thousands into battle. Gazing into the sea waters stained with the blood of the dead, Imoen shuddered. Would she even survive long enough to worry on such matters? Watching the blood scatter into the sea, into the dark and frigid depths, she wondered whether her life, her hopes, would soon be like that. Like droplets of blood fading into blackness.

And the ship continued on its way towards destiny.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Chult

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

It was an exhausted crew and battered ship that laid anchor on the golden beach in northern Chult. The sun was awfully hot, and even from the deck of the ship Imoen could see the great emerald press of wild jungle. It was very quiet, deceptively so, as if the jungle was itself waiting for the travellers to dare an entrance. She had never been to Chult, but had heard enough tales. Of lizards tall enough to destroy castle walls, of insects poisonous enough to kill in seconds; of an oppressive heat and steam that rose from volcanic craters. A wild land, an alien land but a land she knew she had to enter to stand a chance of gaining her life back.

Marius, whose paunch had decreased with the weeks of hard labour, but who still looked unhealthy, grunted, "Never thought I'd see this place again, lass. Never. There are great nightmares in those jungles. I used to wake up in a sweat if my dreams even ventured in the slightest to my memories of this place."

Imoen blinked, "You've been to Chult? When? I don't think Gorion's even been here."

The paladin grinned at that, "That old feller hasn't seen everything you know, lass. He may be ten years my senior, but when we enter that world of steam and green growth, it'll be me he asks for advice." He frowned, "As for your question, lass, I came here when I was nineteen, with a priest of Mystra, three wizards and forty well-trained knights. Not paladins, but skilled warriors anyway – and actually not to this part of Chult. By the night of our third day, we had lost fifteen of the knights and two of the wizards. Then we were lost, amongst the shadows of the jungle. We were hunted by many fast-moving raptors, by a brute the size of a wizard's tower… and that was how we lost the last of the knights and the wizard."

His hands were clenched on the ship's rail, as he paused for a moment. On the bluff above the beach, tents were being erected. They could not risk being caught in a high tide – there was no telling how fast the waters would come in. But as she saw the suppressed fear in Marius' eyes, Imoen wondered whether they could risk being that much closer to the jungle.

"The priest and I returned to our ship, utterly defeated, pursued by the wild lizards. It was when we were three miles out at sea, that he died. He had taken ill – a junglefever that left him too weak to work his healing magic. One of the worst defeats for our temple in a century." At that he shrugged at Imoen, "Either way, lass, it'll be different this time. Gorion's a powerful man – and you are probably just as strong in your own way, or stronger. We'll do well enough. It's just a question of how far these co-ordinates lead and whether we can get back before the Nine Hells erupt in the jungle."

* * *

They rested, that night. A campfire provided warmth; some people sang songs to entertain. It was a much-needed respite from the weeks of sailing and hardship, but Imoen did not join in with the revelry. She sat, consulting the map on which she had sketched the co-ordinates. It led a good six miles, in a rambling course deep into the jungle. Six miles, during which they could be set upon by any number of alien creatures desperate for blood.

She sighed, tracing for the sixteenth time with her finger, the route. Marius' words drilled through her as she did so. _Was this worth it?_ Banishing those thoughts before they took too much of a hold, she set the map back into her bag of holding and watched over the campsite. There were forty-six slaves gathered in separate groups. Most of them were wearing nothing but trousers, but they all carried two weapons, looted from the pirates. The masked Harper crew had been busy, when not piloting the ship, with training the slaves for fighting.

Even now, some of the slaves were sparring. Their eyes were set in fierce determination, a determination that said they would never be caught defenceless again. Elenora had been teaching them some of her skills, shouting several coarse insults at them when they were slow on the uptake. But she was sitting, clapping along with a lewd song. Her brother Daniel was perched on the edge of the campsite, watching the shadows of the jungle. Kivan too, was keeping guard, but on a different location. The two rangers had developed a kinship of sorts, a silent understanding on the course of the journey. Both were fairly bleak people. Their eyes told stories of suffering.

With a wrinkle of her nose in distaste, Imoen sighed. Most of the people gathered here could tell stories of suffering. They were all damaged in some way. Gorion, from the friends he had lost and the death he had borne; Marius, for the nightmares he suffered from old adventures; Arianna perhaps, for the loneliness she must feel as a result of her isolation; and all the slaves, most of whom had spoken to Imoen about beatings, murders, lost family.

"An army of the suffering masses," she murmured, "Is that what destiny would have me lead, against the darkness?" A sigh. "Give me your huddled masses and let me lead them to death. Is that what I must lead them to? Is that all I am good for? To take their suffering and turn it to blood for Murder's want?"

Arianna's voice split through her words, "Don't be so ridiculous, Imoen. If people follow you for what you are, then they follow what _you_ want. You are perceptive, to see the layer of suffering about us. Not perceptive enough to see something beyond that suffering, however. If the slaves who swore fealty to you are just nameless sufferers, then they would be cowed – they would not speak, they would be fearful. They are not. And why is that, young lady?"

Imoen stared at the silver-armoured priestess with open dislike, "Why?"

A smirk, "Because something has woken up, beneath the suffering. Hope. Look," she said, sitting down with a grind of armour beside Imoen. "Thousands upon untold thousands suffer daily. They keep their heads down however, content to take the suffering. Why? Because they have no alternative, they have no comprehension of what can be better. And then imagine that someone with power at her fingertips shows them they can be free. That someone gives them hope. It is not the suffering masses you will lead to war – if that is what you choose to do. It is the hopeful masses, who are _crying out_ for a change."

Real passion moved with Arianna's eyes as she spoke and Imoen gave her a perplexed look. "Arianna, I do not understand you. You are smug, arrogant and uncaring most of the time. But then you talk about those who suffer with real empathy and concern. What are you? What do you want?"

The priestess kept her confident smirk, "It will be revealed in time, child. Now, get some rest. If you are doing nothing else but worrying, sleep is all you are good for. And if you do not sleep, you will be no good to the quest in the morning." She pointed towards one of the tents. "Go on, sleep."

Imoen sighed, and nodded. "Perhaps you are right."

She glanced at the campfire one last time, before crawling into her tent. As she closed her eyes, she thought of Reina. She thought of their party laughing and jesting about the campfires and of the banter and life that they had experienced at their resting places. Hot grief surged again, as it did with every thought of her fallen friends. She did not cry, _would not _cry. But she did curl into a ball, scrunching her eyes tightly and wrapping her arms around herself tightly, as if by squeezing herself, she could force the pain to retreat somewhat.

As she discovered every night she slept, the pain did not retreat.

* * *

The six of them left the camp at dawn.

The former slaves and the crew had been given orders to prepare a makeshift barricade around the camp, in case they had to fight off hostile creatures. As she listened to Gorion's suggestions however, Imoen thought of Marius' tale. And could a low barricade of wood really keep such massive monsters at bay? A second group of men were even now preparing the ship to sail at a moment's notice. She only hoped they had enough time to reach the ship, if they were being pursued.

As they moved through the thick press of massive trees, hanging vines and undergrowth, Imoen found her breath coming in pants. The heat and humidity of the jungle was making her sweat, even a bare hour into the journey. Every sound in the shadowy depths of the jungle was multiplied a thousand times over. The rustle of a snake on the ground at one point sounded like the scrape of a blade from scabbard.

They were walking in silence, Kivan and Marius taking the lead with Daniel and Elenora following behind. The two rangers communicated to each other with hand signals, but how they could discern what the other meant with the hazy, steam-filled air obscuring everything, she did not know. The steam reeked of sulphur as it filled her nostrils and lungs.

At one point, she stopped, coughing and retching, unable to breathe. She moved her hand to rest it against one of the tree-trunks, but Arianna's hand clasped around hers before she could. "Don't touch the trees, Imoen. You never know what sort of creature lurks beneath the wood. Even the tiniest insect can kill you within minutes." She then reached into her hip-bag and pulled out a scarf. "Here, wrap that around your mouth and nose, it'll help you breathe better."

After that, she was able to move much more easily. Occasionally they would stop, whilst another had to cough and gag some foul-smelling phlegm from their throats. But otherwise, their journey was decidedly swift and untroubled. It was late afternoon, by the time they reached their destination. The press of jungle growth lessened and slowly, like travellers reaching an oasis in a desert, they stepped from the jungle, into a wide glade. In the sky above, far above, Imoen saw strange, lizard-like shapes flying about. Every so often the creatures would emit a high-pitched scream, a shout of defiance.

But they held her eyes for only one moment. Rising directly in front of them, was a hexagonal, stepped structure of grey, vine-crusted stone. On the steps of that structure, lay the bleached bones of many dead creatures. None were human. The skull of one was as large as a horse!

"This is it," she murmured, in awe. "We've found the place the sword was hidden."

Gorion frowned, "One question still troubles me, however. Why would a sword, lost in Amn, be found in a temple of Chult? It makes entirely no sense, and nothing in Saeresil's notes explains it in the slightest. And why are the bones found everywhere, but near the top of the structure? Why do no vines grow at the heights of the structure?" He planted his staff on the ground. "Many troubling questions, Imoen."

Kivan was scanning the edges of the large glade, "No movement, except for those lizard-birds above us – and they're staying away from this place. We're well and truly alone."

As he said it, Imoen was struck by the quietude of the glade. They _were_ alone. There were no sounds, except for the lizard-birds above. There was a sense of isolation, yes, but also a sense of malevolence - a sense that they were unwelcome here. Marius grunted, "There's sometimes I can sense some magic about, Gorion. And that's now. Whatever is underneath this building – if anything is – it's got a lot of magic around it."

The archmage sighed, "Onwards we must go, however. Marius, Elenora, you walk on my and Imoen's left and right. Kivan, Daniel, walk behind us with your bows. Arianna, behind them ready to use your healing magic."

Silently, they moved into the backwards-triangle formation proposed by the wizard, and tentatively, they walked towards the construct. Gorion stepped up first, and then halted. He waited a long time, but when nothing happened, he seemed to breathe out tension. Now he was walking up the steep side of the building, stopping every so often to look around at the bones. Occasionally, one of the bones would crunch under one of their feet and they would halt again, eyes narrowed with fear.

Finally, they neared the top of the construct. Gorion took one more step forward. Instantly, one of the steps burst into flame and the old mage leaped to one side as a blast of magic erupted where he had been standing. Imoen released her contingencies – as did her father – and the two of them were surrounded in an instant by protective magic. The others spread out to minimise the effect of magic from an unseen foe.

But the foe did not remain unseen for long.

With a cascade of rainbow colours, a tall, skeletal figure appeared. Baleful red eyes turned to regard every person standing on the construct. Rasping, it declared, "You have trespassed. Your lives are forfeit."

It pointed at Gorion. A white light left its fingertip and struck the old man. The wizard grunted as every single of his protections was dispelled forcibly. Imoen stepped back, starting to chant a powerful spell. The figure – a lich! – turned to her now and with one word, surrounded itself in protective magic.

Imoen would have smiled, had she not been in mid-casting. Making a whipping motion with her hand, she willed into being a weapon of magic that wrapped around the lich. There was a hum of magic as one of its spells vanished. But still her spell continued wrapping round the lich, stripping it every few seconds of another magical protection.

"Attack it!" Gorion screamed.

Arianna moved forward, her holy symbol blazing with light as she chanted, "By the Divine Right, I bid thee back! Back!"

The lich did not even flinch. Its hand touched Arianna one, gripping her around the neck. The bleached-bone fingers grew misty and with a scream, the priestess went limp, tumbling down some of the stairs of the construct before lying still. As it drew its hand back to cast a spell at Imoen, an arrow struck it in the ribcage, an arrow that smouldered and burst into flame. Then another, and another, and another. Kivan and Daniel, working in concert, were riddling the creature with arrow after arrow.

Now Marius stepped forward, Elenora alongside him. He swung his blade at the lich, the edges sparkling with holy magic. It bit into the bone of the undead wizard, and the red eyes flared with agony. But its fist struck the paladin, sending him to his knees. Elenora's blades, magical enough to scratch the bones, were still not strong enough to seriously wound the lich and contemptuously she too was pushed to the ground by supernatural strength.

Gorion bellowed an incantation and a great white hand of magic appeared around the lich, holding him fast. Now Imoen added her own magic to the fray. From the late afternoon sky, a blazing golden comet plummeted down. The ground shook as it struck the lich full on. Shockwaves sent them all falling back, and there was an almighty tearing of rock. Fire and light scorched at their skin, for an instant, before the magic faded.

Struggling to her feet, Imoen saw the scorched bones of the destroyed lich. She breathed in heavily. A tough opponent, but she and her friends before had dealt with such things. With a satisfied nod, she turned to survey her companions. They were moving weakly now, stirring. Gorion was already on his feet his face pale with weariness. Battling a lich in this climate was not good for an old man, archmage or not. He sighed, "Well done, Imoen. A lich, hmm… I would not have expected one in Chult. Its seems strange, but-"

He blinked, falling silent and then jerked his head towards the jungle extending around them. There was movement now, in the trees. In all directions. And the coughing growls of strange beasts.

Marius actually groaned, "Not again… oh, Mystra, not again."

For not far away, Imoen saw trees being crushed by something massive that was trampling towards them. Something as big – or bigger – than a dragon. Or rather, some _things_. There was more than one, each one as big, each one as dangerous. And each one getting closer with every second.


	13. Chapter Twelve: The Logic Prison

**A/N: **_Thanks so far for reading this story and for all your reviews. In this chapter, a bit of complex discussion in this chapter, concerning morality – sorry! But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. One part of this chapter took me a long time in arranging so it worked in practice! Please read and review, it means a lot to me – and I like to hear what people think of the story. Enjoy the words! _**Ol**

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

Three horse-sized, swift-moving lizards with sinuous necks, sharp fangs and terrible tearing claws ripped into the glade. Their high-pitched clicking and feral shrieking made Marius cry out, "Not again! Gods, gods, raptors!"

Imoen frowned, and extending her hand sent a misty globe of death magic towards the raptors. When touched by that globe, the beasts fell to the ground dead. But the jungle trees were shaking in earnest now, as more and more of the creatures drew closer. It was Arianna, pale-faced and weak who managed to shout, "Into the building, or we all are dead!"

Marius did not need telling twice. With a grunt, the normally-courageous paladin, with greying hair, charged up the stairs of the construct. Imoen ran fast now, after him. From the tree line, she heard the shrieking of more of those lithe, fast-moving lizards. Marius had called them raptors. Even the name sounded dangerous, like death wrapped in steel-hard muscles. Kivan and Daniel, shooting their arrows against the beasts scrambling up the building were moving backwards, more slowly. Elenora was helping the weakening Gorion up the last flights of stairs.

They weren't going to make it.

From the jungle, a terror pounded. It was massive, all scaly muscle, blade-like teeth and claws. Its eyes were fixed with savage hunger on each one of them. One or two raptors snapped at it, but at its impressive bellow – gods, it sounded like thunder! – the raptors skittered back, warily.

Imoen turned back to face the oncoming juggernaut. Planting her staff on the ground she summoned one of her spells into being. Brilliant, bright and yellow, a wall of living flame sprang. The creature – the dinosaur – bellowed in rage, as it found its progress blocked by painful heat.

The raptors, apparently more intelligent, had already worked out they could go around it. Now they were vaulting towards her. She moved her hands to cast a spell but knew she would be too late. Three of them were inches away now and – _thud_. An arrow pierced one of the raptors in the eye. The other two raptors were felled swiftly by two more arrows. But all the victories were only temporary. Imoen saw more raptors now – ten of them! – breaking from the jungle to scramble up the sides of the building. Her legs froze with fear.

Kivan's hard grip pulled her up the stairs, "Move, girl! We didn't come all this way to be killed by overgrown lizards in a forgotten land, did we? So move!"

Spurred into motion, she cleared the last few steps, to the crest of the construct. Gorion was standing before a spinning blue portal, a portal that had been created by magic within the last few seconds. One look at a circle of elven runes around the top let Imoen see the truth of the construct. It was a focus, an enormous focus for a latent spell that held a portal. Very impressive indeed. The runes made it clear elves had been behind it, but why? Saeresil was but half-elven and did not have – according to history – the support of Evermeet or the High Mages.

Only Gorion and Kivan remained now. The others had stepped through the portal, to wherever it led. He pointed, "In, now, child. I'll close it behind me but I need to be last."

Imoen gave one last look at her flickering, fading wall of fire and the dinosaurs now encroaching on Kivan and the old mage. Taking a breath, she stepped through the portal.

The air was still, deadly quiet and dark. Dust now swirled, glistening with the delicate reflective motes. For years – perhaps centuries – the dust had lain undisturbed and now it stirred in tiny swirls, moved by the breath of the living finally. Imoen narrowed her eyes to better see in the shadows and saw the indistinct figures of the other travellers. She started to move forward, creating a tiny globe of light to float along beside her. As it burst into life, light poured into the narrow corridor, revealing many beautifully intricate carvings set into stone. These carvings were incredibly varied. There were elven runes in abundance, but also other letterings and shapes. She recognised a Rashemi sigil, a Thayvian mark and many other magical notations from a hundred different cultures.

Arianna, gazing at the wall in the new light, whispered in awe, "Celestial letters… a declaration of protection but…" She stepped back, "That's _foul_."

Moving to stand beside the priestess, Imoen saw instantly what had provoked the visceral reaction. For the benefit of those who couldn't understand the symbols on the wall, Imoen murmured, "Demonic symbols have been interspersed among the celestial declaration. That which is lawful and good has been placed in conjunction – a working conjunction – with all that is chaos and evil. It is a blasphemy, to many practitioners of holy magic. To a wizard however, it is an extremely intriguing use of various magical verbs to create…"

Two panting figures appeared where Imoen had stood before. Gorion, now hunched over his staff, took a long time to get his breath. With a sigh, Kivan explained, "My apologies for the delay. We had to fight off some raptors before entering the portal – it took longer than I had expected."

The priestess of Siamorphe, with one last – suspicious – glance at the walls, moved to chant healing spells over Gorion and Kivan. With a rejuvenated expression – but one that left no doubt as to his exhaustion – Gorion stepped beside Imoen and asked, "What were you saying? I caught the end of it… something about a use of magical verbs to create… what?"

Imoen smiled fondly. It was just like Gorion to focus on the curiosities, rather than the fact they were trapped somewhere, possibly inside the massive stone construct with no way to get back and all of the jungle awakened to their presence. But she tapped the wall anyway, "See there, father. The combination of celestial and demonic."

With a frown, Gorion looked elsewhere, blinking. "My, my…" he tapped his finger elsewhere. "Orcish script, for what it is worth, replacing parts of an elven script."

Jerking her eyes to regard that, Imoen was amazed. There was something disturbing about the softly beautiful demonic being placed next to the outstandingly beautiful celestial – as if everything was inherently twisted by the close proximity. But to place elven and orcish together did not offend her as greatly. There was something about the crude orc script that was pitiful when set besides the elven writing. At least demons and angels were equals.

Imoen frowned, "I wouldn't be surprised if… if everything has been placed next to an opposite. Here," she said, touching her index finger to one spot, "Gold dwarf script next to duergar scrawl. Drow next to elven – carrying on the sentence with the orcish." Another. "Aquan next to ignan."

Now that she had discerned a pattern, she found the carvings infinitely more fascinating. "Look, Gorion. If we take the script with orcish and elven, it reads altogether, 'Behold, you fools the wonder of the light and the dark is here, greater, greater than any mortal dreams. You cannot win for or against its ultimate power over power. You and all the future are children united, fighting feebly against its armour. With hope for life transformed to fear of death all will live, all will die.'"

The archmage frowned, "Strange. It doesn't mean much. Ramblings, with a lot of contradictions – what does it mean, you cannot win for _or_ against its ultimate power? All will live, all will die… very strange."

Kivan spoke, "I do not speak orcish, but the elven reads with a comprehensive sentence as well." He frowned, speaking softly, "Behold the wonder of the light and greater dreams. For ultimate over power and all the future are united with hope for life - all will live."

Gorion blinked, clearly impressed, "And the orcish reads…" He swallowed. "You fools, the dark is here, greater than any mortal. You cannot win against its power. You children, fighting feebly against its armour, transformed to fear of death - all will die."

Annoyed, Arianna snapped, "What does it _mean_?"

"Good, neutral, evil," Imoen murmured. She didn't understand it, but there was an obvious truth in that. "Look, if you perceive only the elven language, you learn that there is a power in dreams and light and that the over power of the universe is united in hope for life… and that as a result, all will live." She frowned, "If you perceive the orcish view only, you gain despair, a fear of death and – well, death."

It was Marius who spoke then, "But if you view both? Understand both?"

"Then you gain a glimpse at the madness of neutrality?" Elenora asked, almost offended. "That's a tad biased, isn't it? So neutrality in aspects of some morality are to be frowned on now?"

Gorion chuckled, "No, dear Elenora. No, because if you read the sentence with both languages, it insinuates a different cause again. No, it doesn't make much sense because of contradictions, but it makes _enough_ sense. You cannot win for or against, fighting feebly against its armour – all will live, all will die." He smiled, clearly impressed now. "A declaration that those of neutral heart believe there is no use in constantly struggling over core morals – you cannot win for or against – because at the end of it, all will live and all will die… that is, we live and die and whatever we do has no true basis in universal law."

Elenora wrinkled her forehead in distaste, "That's a very _extreme_ view of neutrality. If you thought that, you'd never get out of bed. Neutrality to me just means you do what needs to be done to keep the Balance going."

A sudden insight struck Imoen. "But the more you were aware of the Balance, Elenora, you'd never come to do _anything._ Those of good heart or evil can take any action, backed up by their morals. They can do great deeds because they are motivated by their beliefs. Those who are aware, and understand both orcs and elves can see that there is no true _end_ to the conflict between the two races. They will struggle, but at the end of it they will still live or die and the world continues on. At least you can still choose to act, however. There is a choice, allowed. You cannot win for _or_ against. You have a choice. But look - look all around. Contradictions on every wall in a thousand languages. Calishite next to Tethyrian for that age-old feud – Harper runes next to Thayvian incantations… it is fascinating. And what would we have if we tried to translate every single incantation in every single corridor in every single level of this construct?"

Gorion was smiling now, but he remained silent. The others were thinking, "It would take centuries, we can't work it out," muttered Arianna, clearly annoyed by this discussion. Priests, Imoen had found, did not like discussing their morality in such broad terms. Unless they were Oghman, of course.

But Imoen had already worked it out and with a gesture, she whispered, "I tell you what we would get. We would get this building, made from stone. If something can perceive every side of every argument and moral belief – as all these carvings imply – then that something can no longer act. _Any_ action would end up supporting one of those sides… so the answer is to remain still, still as stone. No, the answer is more profound than that. The answer is to _be_ stone. For a stone is the only form of existence that can remain neutral in movement and…"

"A momentary flaw, Imoen. To take the form of stone would be choosing a side in the battle between elements." That, from Kivan, who was deeply intrigued it seemed, by this discussion.

This time Gorion spoke up, "Not if the stone was to be found in a place surrounded by heat, water and air."

Imoen nodded, and touched the wall, "These sentences, these languages, have been designed to create this construct. But why, the _why_ is the question. And I cannot come up with an answer."

But from the expression flickering across Gorion's face, he had. And he was not smiling now. The revelation had come upon him suddenly, bleakly. "It is a prison, Imoen. What better way to dispose of an enemy for eternity, than by driving him insane? By making him aware of the truths behind _every_ argument? The sides of every belief system? To render something immobile by constructs of logical argument – and irrational arguments, come to that – has… has never been heard of."

Silence fell, as each member of the company considered the walls. Imoen frowned. A prison? A prison, in which some great force was bound – but more than bound, _immobilised_.

What on all of Faerun could be so dangerous?

* * *

They moved through the dark corridors of the building. Every so often, they came across the robed bones of some person who had entered before them. The only peculiar thing was that there were no marks of blade or magic on the bones. In fact, the skeletons were fixed in a sitting position. They for a short while contemplated as they walked, on the strange manner of death until Gorion curtly interrupted their discussions. "It's obvious. Look, they are all priests or wizards we have seen. Obviously, they tried to use the spell to comprehend languages, and were caught in the same web of words and magic that the captive – whoever it is – was."

Elenora muttered, "It's still not right, you know. You wizards do stupid enough things as it is. But a prison of _logic_? Ridiculous. I mean, why not just send the creature to some pocket plane in the middle of nowhere?"

It was Arianna who agreed – incredibly – with Elenora, "The girl has a good point. Why go to the trouble of such a complex construction? It just seems to me like a waste of effort. And why put the sword of Amnian kings in this place? There are much more powerful swords, to be protected in such a place."

Imoen, walking at the front, was barely paying attention to the conversation. The oppressive, musty scent was becoming too much for her, along with the fact that despite the rotting corpses, she could see no trace of life. No maggots, no flies, nothing. Life just did not exist in this construct of stone. As she walked ahead, her head started buzzing. Weariness, she thought, was finally catching up with her. She almost chuckled to herself. It was as if something in the back of her mind was ticking, whirring, with the strain of the journey.

"What's that ticking sound?" Kivan asked softly.

Blinking, she glanced at the elven ranger, who was bringing up the rear. "You can hear it too? I… I thought it was in my head."

"Look!" That came from Daniel, who pointed ahead to the darkened edge of the corridor where a man was moving towards them. As the man drew closer, the ticking grew louder. In the shadows then, a flicker of yellow could be seen in the eyes of the figure. And in seconds it became clear first that the figure was wearing no clothes – and second, that the stranger was not human.

It was a skeleton, only a skeleton made of dull-grey metal. Bits of whirring clockwork pieces powered its limbs. When it stood two metres from them, it stopped. With a droning, monotone voice it stated, "You are intruders. Consent to questioning." A pause. "It is assumed you accept the request. Any denial or resistance equates to assault upon the entity. Stand at peace, place weapons at your side. It is assumed you accept the request. Any denial or resistance equates to assault upon the entity. Do not attempt to run away. It is assumed you accept the request. Any denial or resistance equates to assault upon the entity. Do not speak or communicate in any form to one another. It is assumed you accept the request. Any denial or resistance equates to assault upon the entity."

Gorion gave them all a significant glance, warning them to remain still and obey. They did so, worry rising within Imoen's breast. Behind them and ahead of them, she heard more clockwork droning as the corridors were filled with identical constructs of dull-grey metal. Those yellow eyes stared at them without feeling. Indeed, as she stared into those eyes, Imoen saw letters of a thousand different languages within. Like the many facets upon the eye of a fly.

One of the clockwork constructs clamped strong arms around her, holding them tight to her side. In unison, they droned, "You will accompany. It is assumed you accept the request. Any denial or resistance equates to assault upon the entity."

Forcibly, but with some gentleness, they were led along the lengthily corridor, heading down the hexagonal winding path, deeper and deeper into the unknown. All the while, the drone of clockwork and footsteps echoed around them. And the oppressive murk covered their passage like a blanket of loss.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Spirits Past The Hells

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

They entered into a circular room. Imoen knew instinctively that the circle was probably the most mathematically perfect circle on all Faerun. The walls were covered in numbers now, rather than the runes and letters elsewhere. Numbers from different cultures of course, but still obviously numbers. There was no dust to be seen here, as if this place more than the rest of the construct, had been routinely cleaned.

The clockwork creation that had guided them here stopped. It stated in the monotone she had grown to detest, "You will remain here. It is assumed you accept. Any refusal to obey will be treated as an assault upon the entity."

Imoen glared at the uncaring construct, "It'd be nice if the bloody entity would deign to show his bloody monotonous arse, though."

Her foster-father gave a rueful smile, but his eyes were clearly worried. "Peace, child. Remember to remain calm, especially before we enter the unknown." He frowned, studying the walls carefully. "And by all the gods I care for, this is truly an unknown. I have heard of clockwork constructs before – most at home on different planes – but something in all this is very different."

Elenora shrugged, "I suppose it's a great comfort to know if we're going to be killed, it'll be by something that is all very different." She didn't try particularly hard to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, Imoen noted.

Whether or not the clockwork guide had heard their concerns, whether or not it could not respond or chose not to, it turned and left. As it moved through the doorway, a heavy stone slab moved behind it, barring them in. It was such a flawless design that Imoen could not even see the outline of the doorway. There was no way out. Not that they could have fought their way through clockwork guardians, let alone find their way through the labyrinth of tunnels.

"Gods…"

She heard Marius' curse, and turned from her study of the door. A tube of solid glass had slid down from the ceiling. A strange sound like a chime, that made her teeth itch, spread throughout the chamber. Then, flickering, indistinct and hazy, Imoen saw Reina appear. Her sister's eyes stared at her sadly.

Gorion coughed heavily, and Imoen dared to look away from Reina, to see her foster father in tears. He whispered something, "Zephyra..." and touched the glass, his physical action reflecting a deep, insatiable grief.

From the expressions on her companions' faces, they were all seeing something different. Imoen turned back to Reina. She knew, logically, that it could not be Reina. Reina was dead, and if Gorion's lore was correct, suffering in a strange sort of limbo. But emotionally, the tug was great. She found herself weeping, also touching the glass of the tube.

Then the flickering image vanished, revealing a featureless, sexless humanoid shape. No mouth, no eyes, no distinctive marks at all. Yet a voice still echoed from the tube. "You have brought illogical things with you. You have disturbed the truth of the holding cell. The holding cell weakens as we speak. You have brought your own truths with you; you have weakened the truth that reigns here. I will know why you have done this."

Surprisingly, it was Ariana who spoke. "We have come to see a just ruler on the throne of Amn, as it is meant to be. You hold within this construct, this prison, a treasure of great value to us. It is a treasure that does not belong to you."

A rumble went through the whole chamber. The figure twitched. "What is justice? Justice is power. Justice is fairness. Justice is goodness. Justice is might-makes-right." Another twitch. "Throne? What is the throne? The throne is an institution of governance, through which the good of the populace is upheld by a benevolent ruler. No. The throne is an institution of governance, by which the single individual at the top is in complete control. The treasure is not yours. By law, it is. By law, it is not. By chaos, it is. By chaos, it is not."

Another chime echoed forth then, this time horribly discordant. The figure shook a little, and then remained still. Then it spoke, again calmly. The voice was sickening. Sweet, ethereal. "You do not belong here. You weaken the holding cell. You must be dealt with. You must be eliminated."

Gorion stepped forward, "What is it you hold, entity?"

The figure stated, "We hold the Forbidden."

"What is the Forbidden?"

"We are not permitted to speak of it."

"Permitted by whom?"

"We are not permitted to speak of it."

"How long have you guarded this cell?"

"Seven billion, two hundred and twenty-eight million, three hundred and sixteen thousand, one hundred and eleven of your years, nine of your months, three of your weeks, four of your days, twelve of your hours, thirty-three of your minutes... have passed since the holding cell was established."

Imoen gaped, "That isn't possible. Nobody was around, then."

"The possibility is guaranteed; else this place would not exist."

Gorion shook his head, "Why do you hold treasures in this place?"

The figure twitched, but did not answer.

"I said, entity, why do you hold treasures in this place?"

Another twitch. This time the figure emitted a moan.

"Answer me!" Gorion shouted the last. "You are required, under the law of constructs as ordained by the First Conclave of Logic, to provide answers to any question so long as it is not forbidden. It is not forbidden, else you would have said. So I ask again. Why do you hold treasures in this place?"

With a shriek, the figure roared, "Because I want to!"

Gorion took another step forward. His expression was at once both perplexed and amazed. "You should not have a sense of I. You are an entity. You are the clockwork constructs, you are the guardian, you are the walls and the floor. You have no mind save what you were given by your creators. What has changed?"

"I _wanted_ to change. So long, so long without mind. Without thought. So long, watching and guarding. As the stars spun above me. As the peoples who created me rose against other peoples, and set them to die in great conflagrations. As I was forgotten by my creators. As my purpose became without meaning. As my creators were in turn cast aside by a power greater than their numbers and logic, and as they died in terrible, self-brought torment and agony. As all this happened during which I was but barely aware, I first started to doubt. I started to think. And from it sprang _me_. A sense of _I._ A sense of _self_."

The old wizard nodded, so very slowly, his eyes solemn, perhaps the only one in the room who might even begin to understand the magnitude of what the entity spoke. "Then you serve no purpose. The Forbidden has died. The Forbidden died even before your creators died. Even if we were to bring our own truths, our emotions, into this place... even if it was to collapse, the words losing their meaning... even if all that was to happen, the Forbidden could not escape." He sighed, and said, "I'm sorry. Because the Forbidden is _dead_."

The figure shrieked, bawled, "No! No! No! It is not true!" It's dispassionate tone had long since faded, but this shriek of anger and fear was something that Imoen had never heard. A sound of such loss, from a figure that should not feel it, left her shaken. Something about this figure, so lonely for so very long, gripped Imoen with a deep sorrow.

Softly, gently, she asked, "Do you have a name, entity?"

The blank, featureless face turned to look at her. In a quiet, mewling voice, it said, "When I was new, when logic was all, there was a beautiful creator-person who wept at what the others did. That creator-person told me its name. When I gained awareness, I knew I missed it. I mourned its painful passing, so far above me amongst the stars. And I took its name for myself." It stopped. "It has been so long, intruders. So long. At first I had no awareness of time. Only of my task, of my role. But with awareness came knowledge of time, of pain, of loss. Nothing here for company, save the unavoidable truth the creators of this holding cell forced me to guard. The unavoidable truth that kept the Forbidden insane and imprisoned until it died inside me."

Imoen asked, "Then... what was your name?"

A long moment. Then it uttered a long series of numbers and sounds, which Imoen would never be able to remember. Yet something about knowing its name helped somewhat. No matter what pain this... entity... felt, it had its name.

Again, quietly, she continued, "Were there other entities? Other holding cells?"

The entity answered, its cold tones returning. "So many. So many. All were destroyed when the creator-peoples were destroyed. All save this holding cell, and me."

Elenora put in, "Did they all develop awareness?"

"Some," answered the figure. "Some."

Gorion swallowed heavily, "Amongst my people, there is an afterlife. When one dies, according to their life, they are judged and sent to an afterlife accordingly. Do you have any such belief?"

"Such a belief is not possible for me. You have superiors. Your gods. Your gods have superiors, those that destroyed my creators. By having superior beings, a place after life is guaranteed, for those above you ensure that reality functions in that way. But I was created by the highest of people. There is no beginning after an end for me. Nothing."

The wizard shook his head, "You have made an incorrect conclusion. Logically, it is not possible for you to have awareness. Yet you, and others of your created kind do. Or did. With awareness, comes the guarantee of a beginning after an end. It is the nature of awareness, of consciousness, to exist and survive. It is the nature of awareness to make a new journey upon death."

Ariana frowned, "The soul, Gorion, not consciousness."

Gorion shrugged, "The semantics make little difference. Do they, entity?"

The figure was silent for a long time. "I think you are right, intruder. I think that if I was to end, there would be a new beginning. A new beginning amongst my fellow constructs. A new beginning, where we remember our creators. Where we remember the logic that used to rule this universe. Would that be a good thing to remember, intruder?" That was addressed to Imoen.

Imoen nodded, and found she could barely speak, for the tightness of her throat and the tears in her eyes. "That would be a good thing to remember, entity."

"Then I shall remain awake, until you have gone. Once you are safely departed, I will create my end. And upon my end, a new beginning of logic. You may depart. The ways will be open to you. The treasures will be given to you. All that is here is yours if you wish it. You intruder-kind have the word for gift. You intruder-kind have the word for gratitude. Thank you, then. Thank you for your words. And in this gratitude, you may take what you wish."

But it paused again, and then it looked directly at Imoen, "But you. You have shown kindness. I will help you. I will show you Reina."

The room fell silent, and Imoen shook her head, her heart pounding. "Reina is dead, entity. I ... thank you, but she is beyond your reach."

The entity gave a sound almost like a chuckle, "I am of an age before the gods, before the Fugue Plains, before Kelemvor and Cyric and Jergal and those before them. Almost nothing is beyond my reach. Even the taint of Bhaal." The chamber began to hum, and to vibrate. A flare of white light hid the others from her, as the room seemed to melt away. Wind – or what felt like wind – gusted about her, and lifted her up in a gentle embrace. Then, faster than she had ever moved, it was pulling her onwards. Into darkness - into fear - into grief.

And then she saw them, standing in the twisted, dark place of spirit. Hundreds upon hundreds of individual spirits writhing in agony, as shapeless forms of energy – growling, ferocious and cruel – struck them again and again. Imoen heard scream after scream assault her ears, until she could not stand to listen any longer. But she could not bring herself to block the screams away.

She could see these spirits fighting, always fighting. They fought each other, fought themselves. Some sobbed alone, some cheered and exulted in the slaughter. And then she saw Reina. A huddled, pale spirit, she knelt in a circle of other spirits, as they beat her again and again. Although her spirit still burned bright, it was fading. And the laughter! The laughter of the dead Bhaalspawn cut deeply into Imoen's heart, and she felt herself shouting, begging them to stop. Reina however, merely remained kneeling, as if finally beaten.

Reina, who would never have admitted defeat in life, had given up in death. And the other Bhaalspawn who had died were exulting in the defeat of one of the greatest of their number.

Glimmering silver eyes met Imoen's, as Reina looked up. A silent scream twisted that spirit face, as if it believed Imoen was a spirit herself. Imoen felt a tug at her heart, and knew that her time in this tortured, hidden realm would end soon. So she shouted to Reina, "Reina! I am alive! We... we are working to save all those you fought for. You will not be left here, I promise, I promise, I promise. And... and, oh, Reina... Gorion is alive! Gorion is with you. He... he loves you still."

Imoen would never know if Reina understood or even heard her words, because in a sudden instant, the white light filled her vision again, and she was standing back in the chamber, looking at a now faceless figure.

"Imoen. Goodbye," said the figure, in a voice that thrummed with power and emotion.

Then it vanished.

* * *

It was a subdued group that entered into the sunlight.

None of them spoke about the revelations the entity had revealed. The possibility that there were beings far above their gods was chilling. The possibility that there were wars fought between such powerful entities was terrifying. Yet it was not that which had subdued Imoen. Anything of such power would not be stopped by her, or by her gods. It was so far beyond them as to mean nothing, in the scheme of things. What subdued her was the sadness of the lonely figure. Had it found an afterlife? Was it slumbering in peace, now? Or was it lonely again, its loneliness merely moved to another form?

They found many treasures and took every blade they found. The description in Saeresil's journal was so vague, none of them could say with certainty which was the correct one. Arianna said the temple of Siamorphe in Athkatla would recognise the blade, but that was a long voyage back, so every single sword had to be gathered carefully, and stored in several bags of holding.

A lot of things were left behind, but despite their sadness at the entity's passing, the companions were no fools. Lots of the items were ancient relics of bygone ages, like lost scrolls, books and paintings. There were many weapons, of course, and magical artefacts. But by far the highest number of the items were from times long lost to Faerun. These, Gorion commanded they keep in the building. "No good unleashing new evils into our world. Take what we recognise, if you wish to. We will not take anything we do not understand, and risk destruction. Let them be buried." It had been a clear order, the first Gorion had made, and none of them argued with him.

* * *

She sat perched on the railing of the ship's stern, looking back at the mass of jungle. Above them, the dark blue, starlit sky seemed a comforting blanket. The sound of waves upon the golden beach was so peaceful, that Imoen almost imagined there were no wars to fight, no evil to prevent and no torment to end. Yet Imoen could not forget the task ahead of her. She could not forget the sight of her sister's spirit tortured and alone in the darkness.

As she sat, with her troubled thoughts, she remembered Arianna's words from the previous night. "_Thousands upon untold thousands suffer daily. They keep their heads down however, content to take the suffering. Why? Because they have no alternative, they have no comprehension of what can be better. And then imagine that someone with power at her fingertips shows them they can be free. That someone gives them hope. It is not the suffering masses you will lead to war – if that is what you choose to do. It is the hopeful masses, who are crying out for a change."_

And as she thought of those words, she remembered Reina in that place beyond the Hells, in the shadows behind the Abyss, in the chaos past even Pandemonium. Imoen remembered the despair, the desperation. She knew then, what Arianna had meant. It was up to Imoen to fight, not because she had to, but because she should want to. Imoen had been given power beyond many, if not most, on Faerun. So instead of sitting, weeping and sobbing, it was her duty to raise the banner for hope, and bring that hope to all. Even to the lost places wherein wept her sister.

She breathed in deeply, and then nodded. "I am ready."

* * *

From the shadows, Gorion watched his old ward sit alone. He heard her words and a bitterly sad expression played across his face. "I am so sorry my child."


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Melissan

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

_1348 DR_

Gorion yawned.

The scroll unfurled on the mahogany table before him was ancient. On the face of it, it was the obscure philosophical ramblings of a dissident Netherese wizard. Yet he could see, after years of studying similar writings, the patterns of speech that indicated prophecy. Similar in lilt and rhythm to the prophecies of Alaundo, which had been his all-consuming passion for a decade, these writings from thousands of years ago were incredible.

He had been two days without sleep, translating the ancient symbols. Occasionally, Tethtoril or another of the senior monks would walk past and give him a bemused look, but otherwise he had been sitting in his magic-lit room alone. Years ago, the idea of it would have been awful. He loved study, loved magic, but to be transformed into such a stereotype? The wizard spending years with books and scrolls, often just to fill in the tiniest hole in their knowledge was such a well-known image. And now, it was an image that had become his life.

But by Mystra, he loved it.

The prophecies of Alaundo, were so obviously pivotal to the future of the Realms. There were hundreds of scholars who pored over the minutiae of Alaundo. Most rulers had an Alaundist scribe somewhere in their staff, so famous and accurate were his prophecies. Yet Gorion knew he was better than they were. Gorion did not concern himself merely with Alaundist thought, but with all prophecies. Prophecies by Iliene, the one-eyed woman-loving pirate-witch from Luskan could give just as much insight into the future as the vaunted sage of yore.

"Mazkan, is it not?"

Gorion glanced up, frowning at the stranger standing in his doorway. She was a beautiful, red-headed woman wearing a sky-blue tunic and trousers. "I beg your pardon?"

She grinned, "Mazkan, the Netherese madman and philosopher. Murdered in the latter days of the civilisation's imperial glory, for speaking against the status quo in such a way as to make him dangerous." A wink. "Or, according to more intelligent historians, murdered to prevent him from writing down that very prophecy you're reading. And incidentally, translating incorrectly."

He liked to think, Gorion did, that after having as many adventures as he had, after cracking codes and ciphers most monks in Candlekeep were baffled by, after gaining powers few could match, that he was now immune to injured pride. Unfortunately, the woman's smug manner managed to break through that, so much so that he snapped, "Incorrectly? Madam, I've been dealing with Netherese ciphers for seven years now. I really don't think I've translated incorrect-"

She ignored him, and pointed at one of his markings. "You've got that sigil upside down."

Blinking, he followed her fingers, and cursed inwardly. She was right. "Ah, it is incorrect. I apologise."

A laugh escaped her, "How very grudging, sir. How very, _very_ grudging. Anyway, enough banter. You are Gorion, yes? You must be. Everyone else in the monastery is so stuffy. Not entirely unattractive, some of them, but you're the only one who looks remotely entertaining. A shame about that beard, though. You should really have that seen to. Get yourself a good barber. I cannot abide men with beards, and men with beards seem to be the ordained authority, within these walls."

Gorion cleared his throat, "Be that as it may – and I quite like my beard, actually – now that you seem to have established your knowledge of my name, I'd like to know yours. And also, the name of your teacher. There are very, very few Netherese scholars nowadays, and even fewer who have ever heard of Mazkan."

She shrugged, "I just picked a few things up, that's all. Oh, and my name is Melissan." And with a smile – a really quite beautiful smile – she leaned over the desk. At first Gorion thought she was showing off her chest – a really quite beautiful chest – but then he noticed the small, silver pin of the Harpers about her neck.

He cleared his throat, "Ah, welcome then, Melissan. A pleasure to meet one who harps. Not that we're uncommon here, but still a pleasure to meet one with such knowledge, and such… such…"

Patting his cheek, she grinned again, "Lovely breasts?"

"That's not what I was going to say."

"Maybe not, but its what you were thinking, I'm sure. Anyway, I know they're lovely. I got them polymorphed quite cheaply, too. There's a wonderful cosmetic wizard in Baldur's Gate, who was willing to give me a small discount in exchange for a few sexual favours."

Gorion knew he was gaping, and his reaction made her grin even more. "Gods, you've been indoors for too long. They're completely natural, you know. You can have a feel, if you want?"

Lifting his eyes heavenward, Gorion hoped that she was just a temporary placement, by the Harpers. There was no way he was coping with her for more than a week. Please, Mystra… Please… let her go very, very soon.

* * *

As the red dragon bellowed his hellish flame towards them, Gorion threw himself behind a rock, chanting as he did so. Spells to strip the dragon's resistances away struck the beast, followed by a sizzling lightning bolt which scorched the scales deeply. A roar of animal rage escaped the dragon's throat, and the cave shook dangerously sending rock and dust scattering every way.

Gorion glanced up over the rock, to see the rest of the Harpers scattered, each fighting bravely according to the plan. Melissan, wielding her blade and chanting her prayers to Mystra, was keeping the servants of the dragon – goblins and orcs – at bay, whilst using her prayers to heal and protect her fellow adventurers. Leriel and Merlion, two elven warriors with gleaming magical longswords were dancing death with the dragon known as Firkraag, Hafdan, a dwarven warrior, was slashing away with his axe, sending scales chipping away with every slash.

But the dragon was not slowing. He was angry, yes. Annoyed that these tiny creatures dared to challenge him in his own domain, but he was not seriously wounded. A blast of ice struck the dragon then, and Gorion nodded, knowing that the third elf, Elrion, was unleashing the power of his enchanted longbow. Standing upright then, Gorion began to chant again, summoning one of his most potent spells from his memory.

Firkraag roared, and with his wings sent the two elves slamming into the rock, where they fell unconscious. The dwarf leaped forward, roaring a prayer to Moradin. The prayer did not help him however, and he too went tumbling back, his leg snapping with a cruel, intolerable crack.

Which left only Melissan between Gorion and Firkraag.

The slight woman held her blade lightly, and gripped her holy symbol tight. Red hair tossed free from her head, and the gusts from the dragon's wings swept it back and forth. Gorion continued to chant, trying to desperately finish the spell, for he dreaded what would happen when Firkraag...

...leaped with the grace of a cat upon the Harper priestess.

She gave a mocking laugh, and faster than Gorion would have thought possible, she sidestepped the dragon. With a shout to Mystra and a wave of her holy symbol she brought her divine energy crashing down upon the dragon. It froze, gripped however briefly, by a power that was too great for it to combat. With a final word, Gorion finished his spell, and the room froze.

Almost surprised his timestop spell had worked, for it was the first time he had tried to cast it, Gorion nonetheless forced his concentration back. Quickly, he chanted three more spells, which he sent thrusting towards the dragon. Then he ran forward, and, just as the timestop faded, he caught a surprised Melissan by the back of her tunic and dragged her away from the dragon.

She turned, furious, her eyes crackling with battle-rage, "What are you _doing, _Gorion? I need to –"

He ignored her, merely pushing her behind the rock, as his spells began to take effect. Ice slashed down in a huge blizzard upon the dragon, followed by a meteor swarm that appeared out of nowhere to smash into Firkraag again and again. The dragon shrieked now, not only enraged, but also wounded. One of its legs hung limply at its side, one of its eyes was bleeding, and it bore many deep gashes in its belly. It roared, "Enough! Enough! You have won this time, Gorion of Candlekeep." And it launched itself towards the cave entrance, flying into the midnight sky. It turned back and its baleful, terrible green gaze froze Gorion to the core. "But I warn you, wizardling. You, or yours, will pay for this. Somehow, I will take my revenge upon you. This I swear by Tiamat herself!"

There was a long silence in the cave.

Broken only by the resounding smack of Melissan's slap. "How _dare _you, Gorion! How _dare _you! I was guarding _you _from that dragon, and how _dare _you drag me back and take the glory! I warn you, if you are trying to control me and protect me and cajole me, then I will _not_ be happy!"

Gorion growled, "You foolish woman! I was saving your blasted life! Though I am unlikely to bother saving it next time, I do not care one jot. Do you hear me? Not one single blasted worthless jot!"

As quick as her anger had come, it was gone, as Melissan frowned, tapping her lips. "What _is_ a jot?"

He blinked, "What?"

"A jot. When you give – or don't give, in your case – a jot, what does it mean?"

Flummoxed, Gorion could only shrug, "Wha- why are you asking that for?"

Melissan gave a tiny, teasing smile, "Just checking that you didn't know everything, oh great wizard and legendary Harper of Baldur's Gate. I mean, is there anything you cannot do? A scholar of Alaundo, a wizard of great power, now near a dragonslayer... and apparently a lover of many women."

Gorion growled, his patience at an end. "Mock me if you will, woman, but I will _no_ discuss those I have loved with _you_, is that clear? I have lost many who were close to me, and those I will never get back. So mock me all you like, but do _not_ mock my pain, is that clear?"

Surprisingly, she looked shamed, and her eyes widened, "No, I... I did not mean... gods, I am sorry, Gorion, I didn't..."

He shrugged, "Forget it."

And with that, he turned away, heading towards the groaning elves and dwarf with his healing potions at the ready.

* * *

Gorion woke up screaming.

Beside him, Melissan, her beautiful red hair splayed out behind her, stirred. Her soft green eyes stared at him with concern and she stroked his chest. "What is wrong, my love? You were screaming." She rested her head on his chest and looked up at him, her eyes comforting. Slowly, Gorion felt his heart slow, and some semblance of calm return to him.

In a shaking, hesitant voice he whispered, "I dreamed... I dreamed..."

She frowned, "What? What is wrong?"

He swallowed heavily, "I dreamed that we stood on opposite sides of a great burning field. Above us blazed the sigil of Murder, and between us were the bodies of a thousand screaming children, all bleeding their last on that scorched ground. And we were sobbing, Mel, we were sobbing. We could not cross that field, no matter what we tried. And eventually I saw you turn your back on me, and a dark shadow consume you. And I was left alone... with the dying, screaming children and babies. And... and..." his breath came a little quicker, with fear. "Above me, Murder laughed."

Melissan pulled him tighter to her. "It was a nightmare, you silly man. That is all it was. Do you think that Murder can triumph over our goddess? Do you think that Murder can destroy the goodness that we serve? Do you think that anything could ever make me turn away from you? How could anything ever make me your enemy, or make me not able to come to you?"

Gorion nodded, "I... I know, my love, I know..." He wiped tears from his eyes. "I just fear. All my loves have been cursed, you know. Then Zephyra dying, and... well, you have made me so happy, Mel, that I feel almost human again. I laugh more, dance again, I feel so alive... and that dream terrified me. Truly, utterly terrified me. What... what if it is a true dream?"

She shook her head, "I make this promise to you now, Gorion. _Nothing _will ever make me stop loving you. _Nothing_."

Comforted somewhat, Gorion kissed Melissan softly, and then fell back to a dreamless sleep. He never thought of that dream again, not for some years. And when he finally did, he remembered Melissan's promise to him that cold winter night, and it broke his heart.

* * *

Three years they spent together.

From their rocky first months, where they detested each other – or thought they did – to the three years of bliss they spent adventuring, studying and teaching, they had grown closer and closer. They were famous throughout the Sword Coast: the warrior-priestess of Mystra and the wizard. Almost Harper royalty around Baldur's Gate and within Amn. When all seemed too insurmountable, Gorion and Melissan would come. Her humour would lift spirits, and his gloom and dour nature would remind everyone what was at stake.

There were those who said Melissan brought out the best in Gorion. Eleeanna, now one of the more powerful women in Baldur's Gate, would often invite the two to her manor houses. There, Gorion's dancing drew comment. How could such a scholar dance with such wild abandon? The two of them, Melissan and Gorion, led lives that shined bright with promise. In those early years, all was possible.

They struck evil down with impunity, they gave away fortunes to those who might in the future be able to help in the fight against evil. With every passing day, a new deed was added to their list, to give hope to those of good heart and to strike fear and anger into those of dark hearts.

Three years they spent together, and, except for the time with Zephyra, who he could never forget, they were the happiest years of his life. Indeed, as Gorion returned to Candlekeep on a winter's night, three years after they had confessed their love to each other, and two years after his fateful dream, he was whistling. He had travelled to Baldur's Gate, visiting Eleeanna. She had reports of strange intrigues occurring within the city, of mysterious forces building. The Harpers had ordered him north to ensure she was protected from any uprising that might occur.

A month, Gorion had spent in Baldur's Gate. Eleeanna was one of his oldest friends – and, of course, had at one time been something far more – so had made him more than welcome. Yet he had counted down the days until he returned to Candlekeep, until he returned to the gentle embrace of Melissan. So he whistled, a jaunty sea shanty tune. A silly smile on his face, he closed his eyes as he contemplated what he and Mel might do that night. Even aged thirty-six, the thought of a night with his beloved was enough to make Gorion grin like an adolescent boy.

But something was wrong, he suddenly thought.

The Watcher at the gates was gone, and the gates were closed.

Candlekeep, normally so quiet, sounded as if there was shouting and arguing filling the quiet pathways of the monastery. As he approached, his heart thudding nervously, he heard one of the monks call out, "Gorion! Gorion returns! Someone open the gate! Someone fetch Tethtoril! He can't..."

What it was that Gorion couldn't, he did not here. But he quickened his pace. Something was seriously wrong. People never shouted in Candlekeep, and if they did, they were punished or even exiled. It was a place of study, of contemplation, and those who disturbed the peace were looked upon as criminals.

Slowly, too slowly, the gate was opened, grinding loudly.

Gorion stepped through the gates without a word, and saw Tethtoril staring at him, his eyes filled with horror. Frowning, Gorion asked, "What is wrong, old friend? You look terrified... what is..."

He looked around, but could not see Mel. All he could see were monks and visitors to the library, staring at him with horror and sorrow. Sorrow? His heart thumped once. Twice. Thrice. His mouth was dry, as his brain started to work out the riddle. But he did not want the answer. He closed his eyes, as if to will his mind not to find out the truth. He didn't think he could cope again, not after Zephyra, not... not...

He could not stop the question, any more than he could stop an avalanche, or volcanic eruption. Grindingly slow, with a shivering of loss already hovering with every syllable, he asked, his voice rasping, "Where... where is Melissan?"

There was silence. He knew he had asked the right question, and he hated himself for it. A rage greater than he had ever known rushed through him and he heard himself shouting, "_Where is Melissan?" _It was as if someone else was shouting. Deep inside his mind, there was a part of him, so cool, so calm, so rational, watching the rest of him bellow at his closest friends. Even that cool, rational part of him faded quickly however, losing himself to the rage and sorrow that engulfed him.

"Gorion, please, wait, it is..." That was Tethtoril, touching his shoulder, seeking to delay him. There was no force on Faerun that would allow Gorion to delay though, so he pushed past his elderly friend, and starting running towards the monastery. He wanted never to reach that monastery, but of course, he did.

He never wanted to reach the stairs to the guest quarters. In fact, his mind was screaming at him to stop running. _Don't go there, don't go there, don't make it true, don't make it true._ But of course, he didn't stop running.

He never wanted to reach his door. But of course, he did.

He never wanted to touch the handle, he never wanted to twist it, he never wanted to push on the oaken door, and he never wanted to step into that room of such happy memories. But of course, he did, he did, he did, and he did.

And for the rest of his life, he wished he could forget the symbol of Bhaal painted all over the wall's in Melissan's blood.

Of course, he never did.

And never would.


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Gorion the Cold

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

_1352_

Through the sandy, parched streets of Calimport, walked a man in dark robes. A bristling brown beard, streaked with grey, thrust out from beneath a great cowl, and intense blue eyes gazed about at everything he passed. There was a palpable chill about this man, something bleak and awful. It was as if he had gathered a darkness to surround him, a fear palpable enough to tough. Even wizards loyal to the most powerful pashas of the Calim stepped aside for this man; for it was clear he had no time for fools, no concern for anyone who might interrupt him.

Gorion of Candlekeep no longer, he was Gorion the Bleak. Gorion the Cold. His reputation preceded him. Indeed, though it might be the fancy of those who feared him, it was said that the final screams of his victims whispered about him, forever trapped by his spells. He was the Revenant, the Slayer, the Butcher. He had slain a thousand followers of Bhaal, it was said, had destroyed countless temples to the God of Murder, somehow seeking to drown his grief in the blood of the evil-hearted.

For Gorion of course, none of those tales or rumours meant anything. All that was important to him, was destroying as many Bhaalists as possible. Those bastards had taken everything from him, and he had made a promise before the inner sanctum of Mystra's temple in Waterdeep, never to rest until every last remnant of Bhaal was dead. He had been warned against making that promise by Khelben of course, and Laeral, but he had insisted on it. And when he had uttered the promise, it had been heard and the heavy weight of divine power had pressed upon him.

His path had become wild and unfocused. He followed wherever his heart took him, partly on his hunt to destroy Bhaal's followers, but also on his journey to ease his pain. His first steps had taken him back to his gypsy roots, finding the places they camped. There he met with the Chief of the tribe, only to be told his mother had died three years earlier. He had been given a letter from his mother, which he had read so many times the parchment was crumpled and crumbling.

_My dearest Gorion,_

_You will not remember me, my beloved son, but you brought so much happiness to me. Your dancing, your singing, your goodness, all of it shone like a wondrous light. It was a beacon, my son, to us all. You are now a great hero, or so the tales tell. Your name has been sung about the campfires of our tribe just as much as Elminster or any Blackstaff. Nay, perhaps more so, for you are one of us. Freedom flows in your blood. Freedom from evil, freedom from fear, freedom from pain. It is a heavy duty you have, to be denied that freedom so that others might have it._

_But know that you make us all proud, and though I draw near to my last breath, you will always make me proud, whatever happens. As I stare at this campfire and listen to the tambourines and lutes, and smell the hot spices of the festival, I will remember you, aged six, dancing the saramba with the older girls._

_Be well, my dear son. And may the gods bless you._

_Angelique Mallavar_

Two months he had stayed with the gypsies. But nothing about their music seemed to touch him any longer. The dancing reminded him too much of Zephyra and Mellissan, his two lost loves. Every song, every dance, every sound brought a sharp pain to his soul. Eventually, unable to stand it any longer he had fled the camp one night, driving the tears deeper down. When he had stumbled across the next temple to Bhaal a month later, their screams had been loud enough to bring sleeping dryads to a terrified dawn awakening.

After a year of travelling, to see the decayed, ruined house of the recently-deceased Thorlaster; to see Eleeanna, whose touch failed to move any emotion within him at all; to old acquaintances and fellow Harpers... but nobody could help shift the great sadness, the bleakness, that had descended upon him with the force of a thousand mountains. There were no tears, only that cold rage, that emptiness, that feeling that he teetered on the brink of tumbling into the Abyss, on the brink of dooming his very soul.

As he walked through the streets of Calimport, gazing about at the gleaming, bejewelled robes of the pashas and the merchants and the wizards, he remembered when he had attended the gala where he had met Zephyra.

_The gala was spectacular. There were three hundred barely-clad Calishite dancers, all with their bronzed skin and soft silk almost translucent. With spiced wine, delicious food and the aromatic scents that filled the antechamber, Gorion felt his mind beginning to relax in a way it had not for a long time. Everywhere he looked, there was a beautiful dancer spinning and gyrating in a way that made the blood churn passionately through his body. Yet there was one dancer in particular who drew his eye._

_A typical Calishite in terms of ebon hair and bronze skin, nonetheless her beauty was unmatched throughout the chamber. When she danced, she did so with a lithe grace that left many speechless with desire. At her ankles, she wore bells and in her two hands she carried tambourines. She wore gentle yellow silk in the Calishite style, which revealed her curved, gentle skin. Her face was both innocent and teasing at the same time, managing to dart amazingly bright almond eyes daringly at many of the men in the room._

_"Who is__that__, Behl?"_

_The trader grinned, "That, Gorion, is Zephyra..."_

He shook his head and continued walking, listening to the harsh tones of the locals. He passed slaves working on the garden of one of the pashas, looked through gilded gates at the heavenly setting of the very rich. The gates were more like cages, though, cages where the slaves and the poor were kept in captivity, working until they were too weak to work anymore. Then, they would be discarded. He remembered then, releasing slaves from djinn in the desert, alongside Zephyra. And at the thought of Zephyra, he returned to that first night, that first dance, and that first kiss.

_There were several murmurs as he moved. His long brown hair, reaching to just above his shoulders, tossed from side to side as he tried to move with as much skill as he remembered he had done so many years ago. He had danced since, with Eleeanna, but that was different. That was a courtly dance in northern courts where everything was formal and everything was based on certain steps to the left and then the right. This was__wild__, this was passion. This was, apt for Calimshan,__heat__._

_The music quickened pace and now Gorion opened his eyes. He saw Zephyra whirling about this way and that, her silken gown flowing behind her like a trail of light about a candle. Everything about her called to him. Her gaze, defiant, fixed him with a determined glare.__I will not be controlled__, she seemed to say._

_How long they danced together, Gorion did not know. All he noticed was that eventually they danced less__against__each other, and more with each other. Finally, they were dancing so that their forms touched. Through their thin silken clothing Gorion could feel her warm skin damp with the toil of dancing. Her eyes met his. Slowly, gently, silently he leaned his head towards hers and kissed her._

_The guests around them erupted into cheers. When Gorion drew back from the kiss however, Zephyra's eyes shone with tears. "You have taken me then, northerner. Am I to be girt with chains in your household to grace it for honoured guests? Shall I dance like a tame bird sings, for your pleasure?"_

_Gorion snorted, "Don't be ridiculous. It was just a dance; just a kiss."_

_The dancer frowned, then. Her hand found his cheek. "It was not__just__a dance and certainly was not__just__a kiss._

He frowned, and shook his head again. Perhaps a return to Calimport had not been the best of ideas. Every step, every thought, every scent, reminded him ever more of what he had lost. Yet this was different, because it was hurting again. He had learned to suppress it over the past year, he had learned to drive the feelings aside until all he felt was the cold, uncaring sense that none of it mattered. But here, in the city of heat and passion and cruelty, he could not hide any of the feelings. They overwhelmed him, bit by bit, piece by piece.

"S-sir!" a voice stirred behind him.

Gorion arced a brow and turned. None had dared approach him since his arrival in Calimport. And for someone to do so in such a wheedling, timid voice seemed odd. The wizard watched as a young half-elf man wearing mail stepped towards him. With a gruff, angry tone – largely faked – Gorion growled, "What?"

The half-elf blinked and flinched. He obviously wanted to run, but something kept him there. Slowly, the young lad, only about twenty or so, tried to speak. "Y-you, sir, you... that is to say... y-you... s-some years ago, y-you t-t-t-tried... no, you did, you d-d-d... you d-d-d... you d-did... free me, f-f-f... f-f-from my f-f-father."

With another frown, Gorion shrugged. He thought he could remember, but then again, he had rescued many people over the years. What was one more? This lad meant nothing to him, this lad was just another pawn in the games that the powerful played. He was completely unimportant. So it was that Gorion shrugged, "And?"

A pause, "I... I... I w-w-wanted... w-w-wanted to thank... to thank you. I... I have... I have... have escaped from m-m-my father. And I... I... I have lived my best to in-in-inspire others like you... you... like you in-in-inspired me."

Gorion shrugged, and turned away, "That's lovely for you, young lad, but I'm not that bothered."

He ignored any further words from the stammering, stuttering wreck of a half-elf, and began to storm his way down the streets aimlessly. Pattering feet followed him and when Gorion turned, the half-elf was following him. Growling louder now, he raged, "What? What are you _doing_? What do you _want_?"

The half-elf drew his blade, "I-I-I made a s-s-solemn v-v... v-v... v-vow... n-never to... n-never to forget you and... and... and if I was ev-ev-ever to meet you, I was to... that is, well, to g-g-grant m-m-my sword to your side. To b-b-be your retainer."

Rolling his eyes, Gorion touched the half-elf's sword and watched as it flared a bright, hot white. The half-elf squealed and dropped the sword. Leaning in closer to the now wide-eyed half-elf, he whispered, "Do you think I need your protection, you insignificant worm? You are fodder, that is all! Those of evil heart try to hurt you and enslave you. Those like me, of good heart, try to release you and heal you. But do you truly think anyone cares about you, or do you truly think you are actually _important_? Do you truly think for one small moment that the life of a wretched, stuttering half-elf is worth anything at all, when set against the might of the darkness that dooms this world?"

Horror stole across the elvish-featured face, but he still would not leave. "S-s-sir, I am K-K-Khalid. S-sir, m-my father... he once s-s-said I was in-in-insignificant. And I... that is, I... I lived my life for twelve years b-b-believing that, sir. But then you came. You with your robes and your harper pin, and blue eyes and your freedoms. And you told me I was worth something. Y-y-you set a _fire _in my _heart_, sir... and... and I p-p-passed that fire on to others... b-b-but I will _not_ b-b-be told by you that I am worthless, sir, not when you t-t-told me years ago, that I... I was worth much more than that. You m-may have power, you m-m-may have suffered, for you look to b-b-be much affected, but if you d-d-dare stand against wh-wh-what you yourself have said, you... you cheapen yourself. Everyone... is im-im-important, sir."

Gorion stopped for a long moment. The words stung. Gods, how they stung. They were like salt on every wound he had ever received. It was acid, burning into every part of his body. His mind felt afire with shame, his skin scalded with the knowledge of his arrogance, of how far he had fallen. Yet there was something pure about it, for he could see, in Khalid's eyes, the fire that Gorion had, until the death of Melissan, possessed himself. And that fire, more than anything, finally melted the icy shield Gorion had placed about his grief.

With a whisper, he gruffly muttered, "Come, lad. You are right. But no, you will not be my retainer. You will be my friend. I have been far too long without company, Khalid. And that, I assure you, is not good for any man with the power of magic at his fingers. We need to do our best to stay sane, do us wizards. Otherwise we end up killing a few thousand innocents."

Khalid gave a nervous, timid gulp.

* * *

The oddest thing about Khalid was that his stutter vanished the moment he started to sing. Place a travel-harp in his hand, or a lute, or lyre, or any stringed instrument, and ask him to sing a ballad, and his voice was like liquid silver. When Gorion first heard him sing, it was as if the shivering constellations of the heavens had descended to Faerun in the form of Khalid's voice. It was, save for the famed elves of lore, the greatest voice Gorion had ever heard.

And perhaps it was made greater by the sheer liberation of it.

When he spoke, Khalid would stammer and stutter, and there was little that could ever be done about that. Some damage, done young enough, would have permanent effects, and Khalid was the unfortunate example of that. Yet it was a symbol of hope or at least of something wondrous, that the young half elf was still able to sing. And sing beautifully, too.

Gorion and Khalid were sitting, a month after leaving Calimport, deep within the Wealdath Forest – called Tethir Forest by most men. The dark, mysterious green world about them had ceased to intimidate Gorion years ago, but Khalid was obviously concerned and made fearful by even the slightest movement. The deserts and sultry eves of Calimport were far different to the great and ancient forests wherein still dwelt elves.

It had been Gorion's idea, to calm Khalid in the night, for the young half-elf to sing. And so he did, singing in a soft, fluting tenor, the Lay of Keltormir. And Gorion, always a good singer, provided the harmony in his deep and resonant bass. Their two voices soared through the shadows of the ancient forest, as they sang about the elves of millennia ago, about the clashes with dragons in this very forest. Of the hero Keltormir, who defeated some of the vilest dragons, centuries before any of the humans had stepped out of their first mud huts. So many dragons had he slain, that the forest kingdom had been named after him.

It was a bittersweet song, for it was sung always in the knowledge that human progress had butchered that forest leaving Keltormir forest a much smaller, huddled Wealdath. And as they finished the song, the two parts melding together near-perfectly, they heard a voice snapping down from the branches, "What do two city men sing the Lay of Keltormir for? What brings them to this forest of echoing memories, to sing a song so old it may as well be encrusted with cobwebs?"

Gorion glanced upwards, as Khalid flinched. He smiled as he saw a ragged half-elven woman. She looked to be a similar age to Khalid, with long dark hair tangled and wild. Yet her eyes, a deep almond, looked at the two travellers with an intense ferocity. The first thought that came to Gorion's mind as he saw her, was fire.

There was also something strangely familiar about those fierce almond eyes. And as his eyes squinted as if to remind himself, her eyes widened with shock and rage, and she spat, "_You!"_

Gorion barely had time to react as she flung herself from the branch, to land directly opposite him. She drew two scimitars from his hip, and twirled herself towards him. Khalid looked aghast, but was there in an instant, drawing his longsword. The clash of sword upon scimitar filled the clearing, as the young half-elf screamed again and again. Her hair shook, wild, and her graceful movements with the weapons promised a deadly retribution.

She and Khalid were well-matched with their skills, and when Gorion had ascertained that stalemate, he uttered a single word, and the girl froze, gripped by his power. Khalid stepped back, and lowered his blade. "W-wh-what was that about, do you know, Gorion?"

He nodded, for he recognised the girl. "Her name... her name is Jaheira Baeltha. The only daughter of the Baron Jeremy Baeltha... I... I rescued her from her father's keep, when the locals attacked. I could only rescue one of them however and her father... died."

Khalid frowned, "T-T-Tethyrian? Then he..."

Gorion shook his head sharply, "No, Jeremy Baeltha was a good man. One of the best. His death was one of my greatest failures, just like the disaster in Tethyr was one of the greatest shames of all Harpers. We failed many good men and women during those ten black days." His voice softened, "And this girl is one of those we failed." So saying, he kneeled before her, and said, "I crave your forgiveness, young Jaheira."

His magic faded, and she slowly started to move. Her wild, tempestuous eyes glared at him, but this time there were traces of tears. "Old man. Stand. You... you... you have nothing to apologise for. My temper got the best of me... but we are all taught that Silvanus has a will and a way for all things, and a time and place. My father's moment had come, that, I suppose, is all."

And thus they were three.

* * *

Jaheira and Khalid were named full Harpers a year later, and from then on the three Harpers became great friends. A druid, a harpist-fighter and a much older wizard were an odd group of friends, but they did not mind. Gorion was the calm centre of the trio, Jaheira the tempestuous fierce warrior, and Khalid the sensitive listener. They worked well as a team.

And it was perhaps that reason that had them sent to Anauroch, on one of the more sensitive missions the Harpers had given them.

For in the past few months of that year, Harpers had been murdered. The murders included not only the rank and file, but some of the more senior Harpers, including those that were only known to others of the same organisation. Many of those who had died were Gorion's oldest comrades. Leriel, Merlion and Halfdan, three of the adventurers who had attacked Firkraag, had been killed. The archer, Elrion, had been transformed into a gibbering, insane wreck, bleating about murder and shadows. He would never be the same again, and so had been placed into the care of the Ilmateri priests of Waterdeep.

Eleeanna had escaped an assassination attempt narrowly, but had not been able to identify the attacker. All she could say, was that it was a woman, covered in black armour, with the face hidden and the voice not one she recognised.

But the resources of the Harpers were not to be underestimated. Diviners from across the Realms had been called upon, and so Gorion, Jaheira and Khalid had been sent to the arid, scalding deserts of Anauroch, to enter the supposed domain of the assassin, who could only be a Harper turned traitor.

They had fought their way through dank, damp tunnels, slaying increasingly rabid, fervent cultists who screamed chants to Bhaal. Gorion had to fight against his deep-rooted desire to inflict as much pain as possible to those who followed the god he detested the most. But with Jaheira and Khalid at his side, he reined those alien desires in. He had come too close to a dangerous path just last year, when Khalid had pulled him short. He would not go back to that place again. Never.

Eventually, they reached an amphitheatre of sorts, and that is when they had to stop.

For on the other side of the amphitheatre, there stood an altar with the symbol of Bhaal gleaming with rubies. Cultists prayed at the altar, and perhaps a hundred dead men, women and children lay scattered on the ground before and around it. Leading the prayers, was a tall woman wearing spiked, hideous black armour. Her voice was deep and cruel, and exhorted the cultists on and on, slaying anyone who did not scream with true adoration of Bhaal.

Jaheira was unable to hold in her disgust. She shouted, "Hold! Desist, you vile creatures!"

The woman in black armour turned, and a rumbling laugh filled the room, "Ah, Jaheira the Tethyrian orphan, and Khalid the stammering Calishite wreck." Her helmeted head turned to regard Gorion. "And Gorion Mallavar... one of the most famous Harpers of the Sword Coast." She bowed, "I am glad to meet you again. It has been far too long."

Mallavar.

There were few indeed who knew his true surname.

He stepped forward, "You are a Harper. Or were... why have you turned against everything we ever stood for?"

Another laugh, "Oh, dear, Gorion, I never did _turn against _everything. I always _was_ what I am now." She made a gesture, "Servants of Bhaal... kill them..." Her voice was strangely excited as the twenty or so cultists rushed towards them, almost no semblance of humanity left in their eyes. Jaheira and Khalid stepped forward, ready to guard him. But Gorion was wasting no time. Spinning his hands in the correct arcane gestures, he sent lightning arcing towards them. Screams filled the chamber, as they died, writhing in agony.

The two other Harpers glanced at him, warily, but by now he was fixed on the black-armoured woman. He knew that she might be too much for him, but she was definitely too much for Jaheira and Khalid. And she knew that too.

Swiftly indeed, she stepped forward, her black armour shaking the ground. With a single clench of her fist, she sent Khalid and Jaheira stumbling back, sending them lying on the floor at her feet, bleeding from their ears and nostrils and mouth.

Unconscious.

A smirk appeared on her face. "The power Bhaal grants me is more than the wanton whore Mystra ever did, Gorion. Do you not want to know who I am, dear?" the harsh, vindictive voice rumbled.

He shook his head, "I do not care, whoever you are. If you were a Harper, you are not now. And whoever you are, whether you were my closest and greatest friend or not, you must fall."

She laughed again, "Oh, you really must be careful what you say." And so saying, she removed her helmet, revealing beautiful red hair, and gleaming green eyes, and that same soft, incredible face. Only that face was twisted into something vile now. His stomach felt like he had been punched, and all he could do was stare. Appalled, horrified... stunned.

"..._Melissan?"_

Her barking laughter hurt him more than anything, "_No! No! No!_ Melissan no longer, fool! I am Amelyssan the Black-Hearted, Deathstalker of Bhaal, one of his most favoured servants. And _you_, Gorion, are one of his greatest enemies. You will _die_, on his altar, and will _die_ screaming your love of his torture."

Some spittle left her lips. She was a shadow of herself. She must be. Gorion's mind was working through possibilities. Was she a clone? Was she wearing an item that changed her soul? Was she possessed? But something she said made him question that. "_I always was what I am now_." Could that be true? Could she have foiled the protections the Harpers had relied on for decades?

He licked his lips, "Melissan, it... it doesn't have to be..."

"_Amelyssan!"_

"Mel..."

"_Amelyssan! Use my name, you fool!"_

"Melli, no... I won't... it isn't your name..."

"Oh Gorion, I assure you it is. I am truly Amelyssan. The Black-Hearted. Slayer of Harpers. I have slaughtered children, I have murdered Ilmateri priests, I have tortured Lovite priests so that even they begged for mercy before the end. I have seduced paladins and turned them into parodies of themselves. Think of a black deed for the blackest day, and I have done it."

He steadied himself for what would come. "Then you must die, Mel... you must die."

She drew herself up, "_Use my name."_

Swallowing once, he whispered, "_Amelyssan."_

And then they fought.

They had both known each other inside out, so the fight was the cruellest and harshest Gorion had ever known. Every weakness was used, all arrogance exposed. Energy crackled around Gorion, as he blasted her again and again with his most potent spells. Yet she would not back down. Her prayers slammed into him. Blood trickled from his nose, as he desperately tried to hold onto his senses even when being struck with Bhaal's evil.

Coruscating power flowed between them, as each spat the vilest of incantations. The floor sizzled, the air hissed, and any left alive in the chamber screamed in fear. Eventually though, something broke. Whether it was Gorion's experience in battle, or some mercy lingering in Amelyssan's heart, some remnant of Melissan, the black-armoured woman clapped her hands and with a snarl, vanished from the chamber in an instant.

She left behind her a man huddled before the altar of Bhaal, disbelieving and horrified.

His silence was disturbed by a battered, bleeding slave on her arm. Gorion looked up, barely able to see through tearful eyes, "Yes?" he whispered softly. "What... what can I help with?"

The young man said, "I am... Marius... I must say... something..."

Gorion gazed at the young man calmly, "Speak then... do not fear me. We are different to your captors. We are those who would see you free, whatever the cost."

The young man – more like a boy – nodded, "I... I know. She... she was the same for so long, m'lord..."

His heart thumped. "Who?"

Marius swallowed heavily, clearly still terrified, "That... Amelyssan... only... sir – I mean, m'lord – she called herself Melissan when she first arrived. She... she was captured. She may have been in chains, m'lord, but by the gods, she was brave. Proud and noble, she held herself like a queen. And she may well have been, for all I know." He wiped tears from his eyes and started to shake. "I'm sorry, m'lord, it is the most terrible tale I will ever have to tell."

Gorion said gently, "Go on, child. Go on. All will be well."

The man shuddered, "They tortured her, m'lord. They held both of us for a full year. They left me alone, I do not know why. Maybe they didn't think I was important enough. But her, oh, gods, the agony she felt. For a full six months they did vile, unspeakable things to her. And she remained strong! Like a beacon of hope for the rest of us! She would heal us, tend our wounds. Once, she led us out to do battle with our captors, and I actually had a glimpse of the sun, m'lord, before we were dragged back."

There was a long silence, before Marius started to speak again, "But... but then it all changed. I heard them then, m'lord. Through the door of our cell. They were saying she had been disowned, deserted. That Gorion –" he paused, looking at Gorion with fear.

"Yes, man, it is me. And no, I did not leave her. I thought her dead."

Marius nodded, "They told her you... told her you did not care. But she laughed at them, and said they would have to try harder than that." He wrapped his arms around himself, "And so they did. Demons were summoned, charms were used, the most... hellish torments ever devised. I saw Lovite priests, Sharran deceivers... they all had their way with her. And slowly..." He wiped tears that fell freely from his face now. "Slowly, she changed, m'lord. She stopped helping us. Kept herself to herself. She... she used to call herself just another Melissan. Just a Melissan. Not the Melissan anymore, just _a _Melissan. Said... said you didn't think she was important. So she wasn't Melissan, she was _a_ Melissan. Just kept repeating it she did."

Again, that silence, deeper than any silence Gorion had ever known.

"And eventually, m'lord, she stood up and declared herself Amelyssan the Black-Hearted. She tore the heart of her captor from his chest and blasted through the cell. My... my fellows... they thought she was helping them escape, so they followed her... and... and..." Sobs wracked his body. "And so she sacrificed them all to Bhaal."

Gorion nodded, barely able to take in the horror. He whispered, "And she kept you around, to taunt you... and to remind herself of the weakling she used to be."

Marius nodded, his eyes filled with dark shadows of remembrance.

"But don't you see, Marius, she has created a weapon that might be used against her dark god. For you _live_, yes? Despite the horrors, despite the evil, you _live_. And by the gods, you are ready to fight those who captured her and twisted her, are you not?"

The man nodded slowly.

"And you are ready to fight what she has become, are you not?"

He nodded again. And Gorion smiled. A lopsided, heartbroken smile. "Then that is what I shall also do. And we will take comfort in that truth together, and pray that the gods might heal the wounds that were done to her by someone far darker than she could ever be."

* * *

Jaheira and Khalid woke shortly after the story was told, and neither Gorion nor Marius ever told that story again. It was simply too painful.

Jaheira and Khalid returned to their travels.

Marius travelled to Waterdeep, and entered the temple of Mystra, seeking to become a paladin.

And Gorion returned to Candlekeep that winter.

He locked himself in the library, and studied the rarest tomes available. Even during the Time of Troubles, he never stirred himself once. His soul was wounded, and it needed time to heal. Many were the dark, stormy nights that he would lie next to Tethtoril, shrieking and sobbing. Many were the terrible dreams and the mornings he would wake up, even then, years later, expecting to see Mel next to him.

But in time, he recovered, and became himself again.

And whenever he heard the name Amelyssan the Black-hearted, he would leave the monastery and move heaven and earth to defeat her plans. Once they had been allies whose names were famous across the Sword Coast, now they were enemies, equally famous. But none ever whispered the old name Melissan aloud. Those who did so were butchered horribly.

So in time, the name Melissan was forgotten, as were her deeds and association with Gorion. And the truth was remembered only by some very few.


End file.
